


Gathering of the Deer

by anniesburg



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Clothed Sex, F/M, Fluff, High Honour!Arthur, Jail Sex, Lazy Sex, Light Asphyxiation, Mirror Sex, More tba. - Freeform, One Shot Collection, Oral Sex, Pillow Talk About Feminism, Sex in the woods, Take the 'Tell Arthur He's Pretty' Challenge, inappropriate photography, smut practice, sub!Arthur, thigh riding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2019-10-29 09:51:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17805782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anniesburg/pseuds/anniesburg
Summary: A one-shot collection for whenever I feel like writing smut involving Arthur.





	1. Trapper

**Author's Note:**

> this could i guess be in the same universe as wildebeest but if you haven't read that/don't want to it'll all make sense.

“Arthur!” You have the sunny disposition of a girl who’s seeing sights unknown. It’s attention-grabbing, but you point at the window with a bright smile and turn to the man next to you. “You ever seen a pane of glass that big?” 

The store window is quite large, behind which sits two mannequins sporting fashion from New-York. Arthur can’t help the way he grins, looking at the object of your excitement. 

“Thought you’s talkin’ about the gowns. But the window’s fine, too.” He nudges you with his elbow, a forward display of affection that you don’t mind in the slightest. 

“We’re going in,” you tell him, reaching for his sleeve and finding his hand. You grip it tight and begin to pull him along. 

“F’you say so,” he trails off, allowing for your insistence with no desire to spoil your fun. Your eyes are alight, he hasn’t seen you look like this in a very long time. 

The bell above the door jingles pleasantly and you look up with a charmed smile on your face. Every thing of beauty from hither to yon you will find, even in a dirty, smoky place like Saint Denis. 

You take his arm, the gesture’s more respectable and survey the whole of the shop. It’s as long as it is wide, grander than anything either of you have set foot in. But you have your pride, you don’t feel dirty just standing there. 

Bolts of cloth line one wall next to bobbins of ribbons and lace. Pre-made items rest on mannequins or shelves, begging to be browsed. With a smile to the shopkeeper, you start forward with purpose. 

“Good evening, ma’am, sir.” the man behind the counter chimes. Clearly, he sees the prospect of a customer in Arthur. “Here to browse, or can I help you with something specific?” 

“Looking at everything,” you reply with a polite tilt of your head. Arthur nods.

“Well, we have a lovely selection of bonnets with summer now upon us. And a new shipment of silver lockets from up north.” He summaries his inventory with a wave of his hand where they’re placed. “Of course, it’s all in the catalogue, too.” 

“I misspoke,” you say. “I’m not looking at absolutely everything,” you glance up at Arthur, your eyes crinkle around the edges. “just menswear.” 

“Ah, of course, it’s stocked to the left,” another gesture towards the other side of the store and you follow the direction. 

“What do you think? Anything you like?” You ask your companion, walking by a row of bowler hats. A shiny, beaver top hat sits otherwise forgotten near the back of the shelf. Arthur sounds amused when he speaks. 

“It don’t matter to me,” he replies, but he at least glances at the hats. 

“I have money for the first time in God-knows how long, darling. I aim to spend it.” You speak with a tone that’s as soft as they come, implying to the shopkeeper that you would rather not be overheard. 

You spare a look his way and he’s already busy with other things. 

“Pick something or I’ll pick it for you.” Your voice sounds more like a coo, accompanied by a gentle smile. It’s a promise. Arthur shrugs. 

“I dunno anythin’ about this stuff,” he sounds like he’s confessing, afraid to let you down. You all but scoff and return to browsing the wears. 

“Yes, but there’s plenty you do know about. Leave it to me, I’ll choose something that’ll make you look beautiful.” You squeeze his arm and Arthur’s careful not to falter in the slightest. But his throat tightens with unshared gratitude. 

You inspect cufflinks and vests, pocket squares and watches that tick with an unnerving rhythm. Finally, you narrow the search to the silk neckties. 

“Aren’t these pretty?” You ask. Two boxes sit in front of you, one of them green as grass. The other is black, and, the shopkeeper insists, quite sophisticated.

“Sure, sure,” Arthur replies. He taps the wood in front of the box containing the green necktie with two fingers. “that one.” He confirms. 

It’s bought and paid for quick after that and you decline when asked if you’d like box wrapped up. You hold on to his arm, handing over the cash with a proud gleam in your eye. 

The setting sun’s dipped low behind the line of factories and tall buildings by the time you exit the shop. Arthur walks beside you, a warm presence in the face of the chilly night. 

“Where to, now?” He leaves it a question in case you should have any more plans. You’re still beaming. 

“I think I’d like to stay the night here. It’s been a while since I had a bed underneath me. Is that all right?” Some of the usual hesitance creeps back into your voice, all you feel is shame. And you were so careful to give him what he asked for in the shop. 

It was like pulling teeth to get him to admit it, too. You’d hate to let him down. In all the time you’ve gone with him, Arthur’s never voiced so much as a whisper that he wants anything beyond the conventional. But when you gave a hard push one night and turned him over on his back, he may have confessed a fondness for shows of dominance. 

Not your natural inclination, but you’ve proven to be very adept at adapting. 

But Arthur gives no indication that you’ve disappointed him, just as you didn’t when he worried in the shop. Instead, he nods again. 

“If that’s what the lady wants, then she’ll get it.” He looks content, almost happy. It makes your chest tighten. 

He knows the spot you’re thinking of. Despite his hatred for the city, he navigates it well enough and you find yourself arm-in-arm with him at the saloon. It’s as refined as you’re going to get and you tell him with a glance that it’s absolutely perfect. 

They always have room, you suspect that very few people intend to spend their money on lodgings with gambling and liquor right at their fingertips. But neither interest you, your plans for the evening are specific. 

It’s a nice place, the wallpaper looks new with hardly any scuffs. You can’t remember the last time you got to stretch out on a double bed, or when the blankets weren’t reupholstered with fox-hide.

“Think of this like a vacation, Arthur,” you tell him when your delighted grin begins to unnerve him. “There’s nothing wrong at all with how we live, I like it best. But I just---” 

“I know, I know. Nice to see how the other half lives.” He replies. 

“And sleeps, and dresses,” you start,” speaking of dresses---” you make a grab for the brown-paper bag containing your latest purchase. Arthur understands your excitement lies less with what you bought and more what it can be used for. 

You open the box and pause a moment to feel the material, turning with a fond look that feels misplaced when it falls on him. Arthur shifts his weight from one leg to the other. 

“Be a dear and lock the door,” you tell him and he’s glad to have a momentary occupation. His resolve’s already steeled, but he can’t help the way his insides seem dead-set on coiling themselves into knots. 

You’re there when he faces you, beckoning at him with a finger. He feels a tug, he can’t explain it, and he crosses the room in only a few paces. 

“Why don’t I help you put this on, hm?” You ask, Arthur grunts in an affirming way. 

Looping the tie around his neck, you handle the material carefully. He can’t help but wonder if your stomach squirms like his does, or if your heart skips a beat when you pull the knot a little tighter than he’d usually want. 

But he’s asked for the unusual, and Arthur can’t say he’s disappointed with what you’ve given him. 

His breath hitches, slightly constricted by the tie but not overly so. You curl your fist around the tail of it, tugging experimentally. 

“Too tight?” You ask him, the concern evident on your face. Arthur shakes his head. 

“No, s’good.” He mumbles. Arthur reaches out to you, his hands at your waist. Pulling you closer to him is a habit that you look to break. You tug on his tie a little more firmly and stand your ground. He lets himself be pulled instead. 

“Good,” you smile, “very good. And very handsome.” You add that at the last second and it’s enough to make his gaze drop. Sweet Arthur, you never have a clue what will make him happiest. But at the moment, you can imagine a few things. 

You’re careful with him, even when treating his new clothes like a leash. Turning Arthur around so his back faces the bed, you begin to coax him towards it. He takes backward steps, amazed at how difficult even simple tasks like walking become with weak knees. 

He stops when his lower thighs hit the end of the mattress. Arthur sits when you indicate you want him to. His head tilts, a rare, lustful look in his eyes. 

“Haven’t been on top for a little while, have I?” You find the conversation helps loosen him up. Arthur’s prone to living in his head, keeping all those thoughts locked away. You want to hear them. 

“Too long,” he agrees. His hands still grip your waist, moving down to your hips in a slow, deliberate motion. You try to move away but he holds fast. 

With a tug to his tie, you jerk his chin up. He bites back a groan. 

“Arthur,” you say, your voice is steely and he loosens his grip. “that’s better. I have to get undressed. You lie down and get yourself ready for me.” The order’s not all harsh words and silk pulled tight around his neck. You bend at the waist, kissing his forehead. 

He lets you go, following your example and shrugging off his jacket and unlacing his boots. The rest stays, however, and he lies back as you told him. 

So he’s not allowed to touch you, but he can still look. Arthur’s eyes rake over your back, you can feel them and a smirk tugs at your lips. The buttons on the front of your dress are nearly as much of a nuisance to you as to him, they’re what’s keeping him waiting. 

Arthur exhales hard and unbuckles his belt. The buttons on his trousers are worlds less intricate than your own, but his fingers still slip when your outer dress lands heavily on the floor. You step from it, back still to him. 

“Need help?” He asks as you reach behind to undo the laces on your corset. All he gets in return is a scoff. It joins the heap of clothing on the floor soon enough. 

And then you’re tugging at your chemise, pulling it from under the band of your petticoat and over your head. You’re bare from the waist up and the noise of frustration tugged from his throat is a surprise.

“Come on, now,” he says, but you don’t turn. 

“I told you to get ready for me,” you reply. He looks down at his discarded belt and undone trousers. 

“S’what I did,” Arthur tells you with the barest hint of confusion in his voice. You could laugh, but you’d rather not wound that impressive pride. 

Nor do you want to wind him up to the point where he’s no longer enjoying himself. You turn and walk back towards the bed. When he sits up you want to tell him no, to push him back. But Arthur insists. He sits upright as he did, hands go to your hips. With more insistence, he pulls you between his thighs. 

Your knee brushes something hard. Your stomach drops, not out of fear but excitement. Arthur’s scruff scratches at your stomach, he kisses you with a recklessness that accompanies haste. But you neither pull nor push him in any which way. You sink your fingers in his hair and leave him to, for a moment, do what he likes. 

His lips are gentle, as if afraid of causing any pain. You remember too well the way he kissed you the first few times, rough and hard with very little care. Not for a lack of it, you’ve come to understand, but simply from habit. 

He’s kicked it, how grand, and Arthur proves it over and over. He’s able to show, if not tell how he feels. 

When you’ve had enough, you give his hair a gentle tug. Arthur places one, last, lingering kiss between your breasts before squeezing your hips. 

“Be good and lie down, darling.” You tell him and he holds his hands up in a mock-surrender. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he apologizes with a familiar sheepishness that tells you he isn’t even remotely. But he does as he’s told a second time, hopefully for good. 

“Can’t give you what you want if you won’t listen. You’re bigger than me.” You explain and Arthur stifles a loud guffaw. 

“Not big enough with how you push me ‘round sometimes.” He replies, stretching out on the soft bed. Pillows are piled behind his head, useless now but perhaps not later. 

“Only because you let me.” Your voice is back to how it was in the tailor’s, sweet but with a teasing edge. You kneel on the bed, straddling Arthur in one, smooth motion. 

The tops of your thighs and knees peek out from under your petticoat, his hands are drawn to your hips again like you’re the commander of your own gravitational pull. You lean forward, bracing an arm on either side of his head. 

You lower yourself enough to take another kiss. Arthur meets you partway, lifting his head in a mad rush to get your lips back on his. It’s not really your fault that your hips inch forward at that moment. He moans against your mouth, a dizzying sound. 

Taking his new tie in your fist again, you tug experimentally. He’s more free with his vocalizations, the din from outside will muffle any unseemly noises. Dimly, you hear a familiar soprano voice singing from outside the door. Someone’s put on a record to add to the cacophony. 

But it doesn’t seem to reach you, not in here. Not when you have Arthur underneath you, groaning and sighing like he’s being touched for the first time in a while. 

It hasn’t been a while. 

“Like that?” You ask, tugging a little more firmly. 

“Already told you,” he says, “yeah.” 

“Just makin’ sure. Don’t want to damage you.” You reply with a mostly good nature. But he catches the concern deep in your voice. You’ll never cease to be amazed by his quiet brilliance. 

“Could if you wanted to,” he says. “don’t you worry ‘bout hurtin’ me.” And he means it, he knows he does. His loyalty runs too deep. He’s content with his own mistreatment, Arthur supposes, but he’d let you get away with murder if it meant seeing you happy.

You shake your head. As long as he lives, he’ll never understand your resistance to the idea of him as unfeeling. Putting your hand to his cheek, you kiss him. It’s a quick affair. 

“That’s all I worry about, darling.” You assure. It’s everything in him to let the conversation lie. Arguing with you before the act is never a good idea, and he wants you bad. “You ready?” 

“You tell me.” Arthur states with a slight lift to his hips. He can feel you, warm and shifting against his thigh. You feel him, too. 

Most of the work’s been taken care of, you move back enough to get a long look at his cock when you pull it from his pants. His breathing stutters, it occurs to him that this can’t happen fast enough. 

You pick up his tie with one hand, the hem of your petticoat with the other and push yourself up onto your knees. It’s a balancing act, the silk pressing into the back of Arthur’s neck in a pleasant way as you manage two things at once. 

He holds you steady by your hips, bunching the fabric in his fists and pulling it up. Arthur knows what he wants, has a tough time saying it but no trouble at all searching with his hands. He gets a good view under your skirt as you lower yourself on to him, his eyes squeeze shut. 

Arthur will never consider himself a romantic, but there is no point in denying you’re special to him. It’s the little things, he guesses, that make it so. You feel good around him, warm and wet with a vicelike grip that sends the ends of his nerves sparking. 

But it’s the way you listen, the way you find beauty and comfort in the parts of him he’s most afraid to show that sets you apart. He feels no shame in moaning when you begin to roll your hips. There’s nothing to hide any more, no corners left explored. He’s fully clothed but laid bare in front of you. And you choose to sigh above him, to praise him about things that feel wrong to take credit for. 

Your grip on his tie drags his neck up, restricting his air and making his head feel fuzzy. It’s impossible to lie back and take what you so insistently give, it’s a reminder that there are expectations of him. 

He can fill those, you don’t ask for much. Just his fingers to leave bruises on your hips and for his tongue to know only your name. 

“Arthur, Arthur---” you repeat it because you know he likes to hear it. He stares up at you with half-lidded eyes, at the way you toss your head back and, of all things, giggle. “you feel---” you’re cut off when his cock evidently brushes somewhere exciting. Your head falls forward again, hair coming loose from the bun at the top of your head getting in your eyes. 

With one hand braced to his chest and the other reminding him in a very unique way that he’s loved, Arthur watches you. You’re still for a long moment, barely moving your hips. 

“You--- did you---” he starts but you give a firm shake of your head. 

“Not yet, but I’m sure it’s not far off.” You explain. “Just didn’t want it happening too fast.” 

“Don’t matter if it does,” Arthur says. He drops his head back on the sheets and your tight pull on his tie loosens enough to let him catch his breath. His voice sounds strained and perfect. “can always go again, ain’t that right?” 

“That settles it,” you sigh. Your hips start to rock forward again with a little more insistence. He’s left clueless as to what you mean. 

“Huh?” He asks, you’re wearing that mischievous smile. 

“I’m keeping you, I’ve decided.” You say as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Arthur’s eyes close. He doesn’t say it but you can tell he very much likes the sound of that. 

Your hand leaves his chest, dipping between your thighs. The newfound intensity in the way you bear down around him takes his breath away, but he’s not so much of a degenerate as to ignore you in your time of need. 

His rough palm covers the back of your hand. He knows not to press too hard at your clit, circling his middle finger around it as gently as he can. You take your hand away, eyelids fluttering closed.

But you do not slow, at least. Arthur’s hips work up into yours all the same, spurred by the delicate gasps you give him. 

Every noise he makes is one you want to keep forever. You want to hear everything, every hitch of breath. He feels the same way, wishing the intangible could be made tangible. 

Still, he can hold on to them for a little while. They ring in the back of his head, emptied of almost all thoughts but pleasure and warmth and you. 

It’s a little unnerving, but dread still persists. It always persists. Mostly he dreads the end, the after-moments when doubt creeps back in and life must return to normal. 

“That’s it, Arthur” you barely manage his name for the sudden crack in your voice. Life will return, with all its faults and horrors. But not just yet. “that’s it, tell me when---”

“M’okay,” he tells you, it’s only partially a lie. He’s still composed, just not as much as he could be. But he gets the feeling that you’re not going to last much longer. It’s a miracle you haven’t torn the silk between your fingers. 

“God,” you sigh, “you are so good at this.” 

“Well, don’t take much to make you to happy,” he says in order to deny the sudden, violent ache behind his ribs. 

“Aren’t you the lucky one?” You intend that to be rhetorical, he respectfully declines. 

“Yes, ma’am.” Your eyes snap open and for a moment he’s almost worried that he’s said something wrong. Quite the opposite. 

You lean forward so quickly Arthur’s hands leave your hips to catch you. But you haven’t toppled forward, you know what you’re doing. You kiss him, biting at his lower lip. 

“Say that again,” you tell him. You don’t ask. 

“Ma’am,” he tries. Your mouth is near his ear, he can’t see your smile but he hears it. 

“You are so good.” It’s more of an exhale than english, he swears he understands it better. 

You shiver, shake and then you’re done. He grips you tight through it all. 

Despite being clearly drawn-out by it all, you keep at it until Arthur’s nodding and pushing at your thighs. He doesn’t need to say it, you climb unsteadily off of him, sitting back on his thighs. 

He finishes on his leather vest, your hand gripping him. His moan like rumbling thunder. You clap your hand to your forehead but nothing is said for several minutes. Breaths need to be caught and returned to lungs, heartbeats to flighty hearts. 

“I never understood why patience was a virtue. At least, not until now.” You mumble, Arthur’s laugh is weak and breathless but sincere. 

You leave him, then, but don’t go far. You stand on shaky legs and fumble through your dress until you find the pocket containing your handkerchief. Arthur stays down, sensing that movement will be met with a reprimand. A gentle one, knowing you, but a reprimand all the same. 

The mattress creaks a little when you sit down on it, at his side again and quick to get rid of the mess.

“Guess I can understand how some folk sleep like this every night,” he says, still in recovery. Post-orgasm calm grips him, Arthur has no idea how you manage to stay upright after the way you came. 

But he gets an inkling, he supposes, when he considers why. You begin to unbutton his vest, a task that fell to the wayside due to mutual excitement. He confessed an appreciation for a little dominance every now and again, he watched you falter just for a moment outside the tailor’s shop. But you don’t falter now, helping him get comfortable after a vulnerable experience.

You untie the tie around his neck, Arthur marvels at how you never once made it feel like a burden to have. He’s almost sad to see it go, but its done its job. You drop it off the side of the mattress with the discarded handkerchief and start on the buttons running down his shirt. 

“I take it back. I don’t care where we sleep,” you say. “so long as you’re next to me.”

“Come on down here,” he starts, gripping your hips with still-shaky hands. You give a firm shake of your head. 

“Just a second, darling. There,” the front of his shirt’s open and his too-warm skin’s met by your cool hands.

You lie down next to him and refuse the idea of distance or irresponsibility. 

“Was that good?” You ask him, your arms always manage to make him feel safe. Arthur lets you hold him. After all that, he figures he’s earned it. 

“Mhm,” he hums, not really knowing how best to voice his agreement. He puts his hand to your jaw, guiding you into a kiss. When he pulls away he’s content in the knowledge that it’s helped you understand. 

“You were wonderful, as always. And very good for me.” The end of your sentence sends a shiver up as spine just as readily as the start makes his heart swell with pride. He almost can’t stand it, until you add, “I hope I was good, too.” 

“Oh, definitely,” he says with a slight nod of his head. “it was different, but---” 

“Sometimes you like different?” You cut him off, Arthur smiles and lets his head fall where it will. 

He closes his eyes, a flushed cheek pressed to your skin in the room that is now still and quiet.


	2. Web Weavers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is just costume porn with a smidgen of smut to justify its existence. it's not good, i'm sorry.

Your fingers are beginning to hurt from the fine detail involved in back-stitching. In the late-afternoon light, you peer at the book open on the rug. Your brow furrows, creasing in the centre and you pause your sewing to flip to the next page. Bodily, you lean forward, unaware of any eyes on you. 

“That don’t look like a shirt,” Arthur comments. He rises from his fireside place to ask after your occupation in his own, abrupt way. 

He’s well aware that he’s stumbled upon something best left alone, however, when you do your very best to hide part of your project under the blanket keeping you warm. The second you hear his voice, you go tense and look at him with a sheepish smile. 

“It must be because it isn’t, Arthur,” you reply. Although, truthfully you can’t blame him for thinking otherwise. 

He brings you bolts of wool and denim in a whole manner of colours from town. Bullet holes and knife wounds have claimed a great many of the men’s clothes and you’re best fit to repair what can be repaired, replace what needs to be replaced. Any one of them often has to go about their business with a mended but permanently blood-stained shirt, you do your best to make sure it that often never becomes always. 

But this is not a piece for the group, although it does concern Arthur. He just needn’t know that yet. 

“Okay,” he says, sounding awkward. He didn’t expect such a reserved reaction on your part. “sorry, I didn’t mean to---” 

“Arthur,” you say in a far gentler tone. There is nothing more reassuring in the world than the way you smile at him. “it’s all right, just give me a minute to put this away.” 

“No, you don’t have to---” he starts but you cut him off with a wave of your hand. 

“I’d like to talk to you,” your voice lowers, he steps closer to better hear you. “it’s just that what I’m working on now is something of a surprise.” 

“A surprise?” He asks, a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “For who?” 

“As if I’d reveal it, you’d tell.” You’re already shoving the white-fabric shape under the blanket and out of sight. With one hidden in the other, you cast the blanket off your lap and bundle it so no one could suspect a thing.

“No, I wouldn’t,” he says but there’s no insistence. “I’s just curious, you don’t gotta tell me.” 

You motion for him to come closer, standing up yourself and turning you back to him. From the bag hanging on the outside of the wagon at your back, you pull a long length of maroon wool, about half a yard. You hold it in one arm and dig your other hand back into the bag, pulling a cheery, yellow measuring ribbon. 

“I still need to take a few more numbers down, if you wouldn’t mind?” You ask. Arthur rolls his shoulders. 

“Sure,” he says. “you’re the one goin’ around handin’ out shirts.” 

“I’m happy to do it. Can’t have someone so fine in ripped, bloody rags.” You say, unprepared for Arthur’s loud guffaw. Across camp, heads turn to find the source of the laughter. Very quickly the interest is lost. 

“I ain’t fine,” he says with a note of finality that you can’t stand. You purse your lips, walking towards him and slinging the maroon fabric over his shoulder. 

“If you insist,” you reply with a note of heavy dissatisfaction that makes his heart press uncomfortably against his ribs. Arthur’s vehement denial of the better qualities you insist upon never strikes you as proof that they do not exist. 

You believe, fervently, that he is more than the sum of his parts.

“But your clothes should be, if nothing else,” you finish, taking the measuring tape in hand. You loop it around Arthur’s waist, pulling him closer than is friendly or respectable. 

Quickly, you turn your head this way and that. You’d like very much for Miss Grimshaw to try and tell you what and what not to do, but she’s nowhere in sight at all. 

You draw closer to him, unnecessarily so with a small smile curving on your mouth. At least you have the presence of mind to try and remember the number, Arthur’s head goes blank as he smells the soap you wash your hair with. You feel warm at this intimate distance. 

He doesn’t think, he only acts. Arthur puts his hands on your shoulders under the guise of steadying himself. 

“Cheeky,” you comment, your voice is soft and adoring. He doesn’t move and you make no motion to force him. 

Next, you measure the width of his bicep, still so close to him. Arthur’s arms stay up as they are, squeezing your shoulder and the cotton of your blouse with a gentle grip that’s add odds with his rough hands. 

You collect the number, tucking it away before slowly turning your head. It’s an awkward motion, but you manage to press a kiss to the skin between his index and thumb knuckle. It’s quick but searing and Arthur’s grip tightens before he can stop himself. 

He pulls you to him, smelling like gunpowder and firewood. You let out a muffled hum as he crushes you to his chest. Every muscle in his body is tensed, you wrap your arms around his back. 

“Love you,” he says. He just can’t hold it in sometimes. 

“Oh, I love you, too,” you reply. Pulling back just enough, you search his face for any warning signs. “are you all right?” 

Arthur nods brusquely. “M’okay.” 

He isn’t used to being asked things like that with such sincerity. Hosea can be relied on for understanding the intricacies of his mind, but everyone’s been unfairly pressured as of late. No time to worry about the work horse when one needs to worry for themselves. 

But you don’t press the issue, you tuck your head under his chin and listen to his heart. It sounds a little like thunder. 

You doubt he even knows what’s going wrong. The worst parts of his life are muscle memory, the twitch of a trigger finger. But he’s not itching to kill right now, not inclined towards senseless violence. 

Tightening your grip, you hope he can interpret actions as well as he does looks. 

He can talk to you, he knows, but not without hearing another voice in the back of his head. He’s so used to reminders of his own stupidity, of his own weakness-worries that they no longer register as cruel. Arthur doesn’t know not to listen to him, but you’re trying to explain. 

“I’m sorry,” you say. You’re sorry for everything, sorry that it can hit him so fast and leave him so sad. Arthur makes a noise of confusion, choosing not to wonder why you might be. So you continue, “last time I made you something I didn’t adjust the seam allowance right.” 

“Ended up with holes in the elbows, I remember,” Arthur says with a tight smile. “Grimshaw almost gave me a black eye.” 

“It won’t happen again. I got a book,” you start up. You can feel the change in the way he holds himself, that vulnerability detaches and he’s ready to move on to what you’re going to say. “picked it up just before blackwater.” 

“A book?” He asks. His arms loosen around your waist, enough for you to pull away. You walk back to where you were sitting and take up the little, red-cloth-bound manual and you hold it out to show him. 

“Household Sewing with Home Dressmaking,” you say with a proud smile. “It’s mostly for women’s clothing but there are plenty of stitching techniques for stronger seams. Miss Banner’s diagrams have been very helpful.” 

You move closer to Arthur, showing him a little picture of how to patch a hole. He nods, wondering now if he ever might’ve been too indifferent in regards to those who made his shirts. It looks complicated, worryingly so. 

“It turns out there’s plenty my mother didn’t know,” you say with a little smile. “I know how to sew buttons on properly now, so you won’t be losing any more of them.” 

“Didn’t lose that many,” Arthur replies, taking in the smaller details that he’s sure you wouldn’t expect a focus on. You make notes in the margins of your guide with a pencil, his eyes follow the neat loops for a few words. 

He looks up at you, at your excitement. 

“You’re sweet,” you reply. Carefully, you close the book and take the fabric from his shoulder. “guess I have to start tracing the pattern, now. Got everything I need.” 

Arthur nods, taking that as a dismissal. You don’t allow that. You reach out again with your remaining free hand and brush your fingers over his wrist. 

“Why don’t you sit with me? Just for a little while? You got your journal with you?” You ask. He nods, he always does. You take his hand, pulling him gently towards the rug. 

The silence that follows is comfortable, punctuated by the sound of scissors as you cut the wool into the right shapes. Miss Banner occupies your eyes for the most part, but every so often you look up at Arthur’s relaxed expression.

Writing in his journal frees him, gives him to chance to give life to everything that can otherwise go unsaid. You’ve never read a word he’s written, but you’re sure his thoughts are uniquely honest and profound. 

The quiet lapse in conversation ends when the light of day starts to die. You pack up your sewing, including the blanket and you toss it into the tent marked as yours. Arthur’s still sketching something. 

You brush by him, refusing the glance at the pages of his book out of respect for his privacy. But you but your hand on his shoulder. He turns his head, as you did, and kisses your mid-forearm. 

“I got some stuff to do before bed, Arthur,” you tell him. He nods and closes his journal. “but I missed spending time with you. Don’t stay away so long.” 

“I’ll try,” he says. He stands with an obvious roll to his shoulders that tells you he’s still stiff from the days of riding he does. “Talk to you later?” Arthur asks when he turns to you. 

“Yes, darling,” you say. His eyes drop to his boots. “talk to you in a bit.”

\---

He does, to his credit, try. It just doesn’t work out, sometimes. 

Arthur’s gone for a week, retracing his steps back as far as Valentine and exhausting himself to the bone. Charles comes back before him, bearing news that he’s alive. Just busy. 

You wait with bated breath, holding no ill-will towards him for pulling the weight made even heavier with the loss of Mac and Davey. Your days are filled with chores and your nights with endless sewing. 

Thread scraps pile around you and the only sound in your head is the click, click, click of your needle against the thimble on your index finger. But the project sequestered to sewing by candlelight after Arthur nearly caught you is finished right on time. 

He rides back into camp well after dark, the only people still awake are on watch with guns at the ready. You hear him call out his name so he doesn’t get shot and begin to make yourself presentable.

Arthur holds no illusions about where he’s going once he’s back home. He dismounts his horse, ties her to the post with a loving care and offers up only a brief pat before trudging towards the tents. He’s tired, sore as all hell but he knows where he needs to be.

He’s compelled to move to you like he’s pulled by a string. 

The lamplight glows from behind the sloped, canvas walls. He’s almost concerned about why you’re still awake and moving about. But then your head pokes out from the flaps at the front, a broad smile on your face that’s brighter than the light of day. 

“I was hoping you’d be back tonight,” you say with an infectious joy. It tugs at his heart strings. “get inside, it’s cold out there.” And the tent flaps close, you disappear. 

It’s a little strange, he can admit but Arthur does as he’s bid. When he enters the tent and gets a look at you, backlit by a kerosene lamp, he understands why you didn’t come outside to greet him. It has everything to do with what you’re wearing.

He recognizes the white bundle of fabric from before, rendered more shapely now with a inward gathering towards your waist. Across the chest and around your middle, it hugs your curves. Lace interrupts the crisp linen, pulled in ruffles around your thighs and above your breasts. It isn’t sheer, but nothing’s hidden from his wandering eyes. 

And several important bits are added. Yet more lace bursts in trumpets from the end of the legs, the straps keeping the bodice from slipping and ending your modesty are similarly delicate-looking. Inserts of shiny, burgundy ribbon weave in and out around your waist and thighs, appearing and disappearing. 

At the top, flush against your breastbone is a cream-coloured tie that Arthur has the sudden urge to tug. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. 

“You look,” he starts, “fine, mighty fine.” Your eyes drop to your bare feet. “This the surprise you was talkin’ about?” 

“Yes, it is,” you confirm, looking up at him with a most embarrassed smile. “you really think it’s fine?” He nods. 

“I don’t know exactly what is it is---” you cut him off with a noise of amused delight. 

“Aren’t they something?” You turn one leg inward, twisting to the side. Arthur swallows hard at the sight of your rear covered only in thin linen and more lace than he’s ever seen in his life. “they’re called combinations, and they’re not exactly supposed to be seen.” 

“I gathered that,” Arthur says. He stays stock-still. “you’d send Miss Grimshaw into a rage.” 

“It’s a very good thing that I intended for them only to be seen by me. And you.” You say, an air of caution to your tone. Arthur doesn’t know what for, he’s watching your chest rise and fall so delicately and he has no complaints at all. 

“Me?” He still asks. His eyes are thankfully pulled from his persistent staring to your face. Your cheeks look hot. 

“I saved up to buy the lace for months and months,” you say. “since Valentine. It’d be a shame if no one ever got to see them, to know---” 

“Oh,” Arthur says. It’s a slow exhale of another held breathe. You stop his lungs from working, stop his heart in its tracks. Every time he sees you from now on, he supposes, he’ll see bone-white lace and burgundy ribbon. It won’t matter what you’re wearing, you give him this memory with a purpose. 

“Come here, darling,” you say. He doesn’t think he can, he’s still frozen to the spot. Your beauty leaves him hungry, though. Absolutely starving. 

But he finds his feet, he steps forward. You rely on him to come when called, he always does.

You hold him differently, responding to his needs. But even your arms around his shoulders make them tense and roll. He doesn’t want to give any indication he’s in pain but he can’t help it. Arthur lets out a soft noise of discomfort. 

Your face, soft and enticing hardens into a look of concern. 

“Are you sore, darling?” You ask, furrowing your brow and tilting your head very slightly to the right. He loves the way you do that, it reminds him of an inquisitive owl. 

“A bit,” he confesses, “and tired, but not that much---” Arthur cuts himself off, looking down at the lace and linen covering your breasts. There isn’t much left to the imagination at all. His hand, rough and calloused moves up your chest. He squeezes at your left breast, clearly insisting you forget about how he hurts. 

“Arthur,” you start, you lift your hand to cover his. You can see it better at this angle, the exhaustion in his eyes. He’s slept with an eye open for the whole time he’s been out there, if he’s slept at all. It makes your chest tighten just thinking about it. Poor dear. 

And still he’s insistent, brushing his thumb over your nipple through the linen. You give his hand a squeeze. 

“Darling, I’m sorry,” you say. That gets him to stop, his eyes jerk up to you. “you’re exhausted---”

“Not really,” he replies. “’sides, how could I sleep when you’re lookin’ like this? Just gimme a minute---” 

You let out a long sigh, more insistently pushing his hand away and moving your arm from the sore spot at his shoulder. You cup his cheek, pulling him into a single, soft kiss. 

“You’ve got your whole life to have me,” you say, “like this and every other way I’ll ever look.” You pull away from him, taking his hand in yours and guiding him towards your cot, towards sleep. “Come on, you need rest.” 

The fact that he doesn’t argue is a testament to that. He sets his hat on the nearby table and kicks off his boots. Your hands are warm, quick to push under the fabric of his jacket or his shirt. You unbuckle bandoliers and belts, dropping holsters and their guns to the floor of your tent with a soft clatter. 

He’s comforted by this and allows himself to be. It’s late, it’s dark, he can be less than a pillar in the inky blackness. He can be supported instead. You open the front of his shirt so carefully, thumbing open the white buttons and tugging blue gingham aside. 

The feeling of your fingers on his skin has been missed, it’s settled in his chest like the dull ache in his shoulders. You don’t feel the need to say it as you disrobe him, but he’s safe. He’s safe at home with you. 

He helps push his trousers down to his ankles. His red-cotton underclothes sport buttons that you easily undo, despite the low light. But it’s as far as you’ll go to undress him. Your hands stop their goal to get him naked and return to coaxing. 

Arthur lets you lie down on the cot, first. Tugging blankets to the side for him, he follows with only a slight groan as his muscles creak in protest. You fold around him, tucking deer hide and flannel around his shoulders.

Your combinations are nearly as soft as your skin, Arthur wants to tell you as he tries to pull you ever-closer. But his eyes are heavy, the dark is coming. He’s asleep before he can open his mouth. 

Despite everything, the aches in his back and the soreness of his legs, Arthur rises with the sun. It’s second nature when the light comes shining in his eyes to accept that a new day has dawned. There’s much to do, always, and no time to waste through idleness. 

You, however, are of a different philosophy. 

“Darling,” you mumble when he moves an inch. He should’ve known better. The way you’re tangled around him speaks of a fondness he can’t deny. Last night, he dimly remembers your chest to his not being enough. Now, you attempt the same feat of getting him nearer than is physically possible. 

“S’only around five,” he says to you, all the softness in his voice carried over from the night before. In the dark and the half-light of dawn he’s very particularly free with his affections. “you don’t gotta get up yet f’you wanna sleep.” 

“Are you getting up?” You whisper. He makes an affirmative noise. Your grip around his shoulders tightens. “Why?” 

“Work to do,” he says. Your eyes open slowly and he’s a little lost for a second. 

“Stay with me,” you tell him. “you’ve been busting your ass from here to the Grizzlies. Please, Arthur?” You have the cruelty in you this early to phrase it like a question. He couldn’t resist if he wanted to. 

“Fine, but just for a little while.” He relents, turning back and holding you to his chest.

“Missed you,” you say to him, making him sigh.

Arthur feels a little better-rested than the night before, but still on edge. He’s on-edge, coiled like a nerve. His hips brushes against your thigh and your eyes widen a fraction. 

“Are you hard?” You ask in the way that he likes. There’s no teasing, no mockery to be found in your tone. All you sound like is curious, an invitation to deny it. You move your leg just a bit as if trying to feel to be certain. 

“S’that a surprise? Thought I told you last night how good you looked ‘fore you sent me to bed.” His chest rumbles a little, Arthur’s laugh half-contained. You smile at him. 

“You were dead on your feet, cowboy. I was doing you a favour, then.” You put your hand to his shoulder. “And I’ll do you another right now. Lie back.” He listens. 

You tug down the blankets, sitting up and hovering over him. Your hair is loose, falling around his face as you lean in to kiss him. Arthur groans against your mouth when your hand presses between his legs. 

He’s stiff as a rod and you’re unsure why he didn’t mention it before. Giving a tentative squeeze, you’re rewarded with yet more small noises. 

Arthur’s thankful you waste very little time palming what’s already ready. You pull the blankets to his thighs, unbuttoning any stray clasps leading away from his chest.

With a stifled moan, you pull his impressive cock from his underclothes and give it a tentative stroke with a loose fist. Arthur bucks up, almost immediately and begins to seek an occupation for his hands. 

He can never be idle while you reaffirm how much you love his body. He has to reciprocate, to find a way to put words to actions. Arthur reaches for the string keeping the bodice of your undergarments closed. He fumbles with the delicate, shell-coloured buttons but you haven’t the heart to admonish him for his roughness. 

When his skin is against yours, all is right with the world. He puts his hand to your bare breast, kneading your flesh in his large palm. It’s as if he intends to continue from last night, rolling his thumb over your nipple and making you arch your back. 

But now isn’t about you, you remind him of this with a gentle squeeze at the base of his cock. Arthur's early-morning vulnerability rears its head, he groans in the back of his throat. 

“Hands off,” you tell him, patient as anything., Carefully, you take his wrist in your free grip and put it back by his side. 

“Can’t help m’self,” he says.

“I believe you,” you reply with a decidedly devious smirk. “I suppose I’ll have to get rid of the distraction.” 

You shift down the cot, out of his reach. Lying half-across his leg, your head at the level of his hip it becomes clear to him what you intend all too soon. 

Your tongue can render him breathless, he’s never had any illusions about that. But you lap at the head of his cock a little like a kitten, with purposeful placement designed to make him sigh. Arthur can’t reach your breasts, but his hand cups the back of your head. He sinks his fingers into your hair but does not pull, does not force you faster. 

He lets you set the slow pace, lifting his head to watch you carefully kiss and lick every inch of him. You’re enamoured completely with how sensitive he is, tracing thick veins with the tip of your tongue and watching him shudder. 

“Good?” You ask, finding the best way to get a verbal response from him is to ask questions. 

“Yeah, s’just fine,” he replies with a nod, sounding unfocused. It makes you smile. 

Teasing him is one of the finer points of life, in your opinion, but eventually you’re ready to move on. Arthur exhales heavily as you take the head of his cock between your lips, touching the bed of your tongue to it. 

His eyes close for just a moment, baffled by the sensation like it’s fresh. He embraces pleasant feelings with a nearly-romantic naivety that could break your heart. Arthur never knows when good things will cross his path. Even now that you stand firmly in the centre of it, he’s cautious as to how long it will last. 

You’re ready to taste more of him soon, your lips taking inch after inch of his hard length. Arthur finally speaks up of his own accord. 

“Don’t---” he cuts himself off. He’s told you before not to strain yourself to fit all he has in your mouth. Regrettably, that would be nearly impossible. What won’t fit is held in a loose fist. 

You say nothing but give him a sharp look, a glare that tells him you’ll take as much of him as you please. He goes silent. 

Now, your eyes flutter shut. There is something unspeakably comfortable in the way he grounds himself at the back of your head, feeling your hair between his fingers without tugging. 

But his hips do buck involuntarily, pushing the end of his cock into your throat but hardly making things uncomfortable. Arthur hisses. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he offers up. Once, you considered pinning his hips but no pressure is needed. You settle your palm against his hard hipbone as if to reassure him and he does not thrust up again. 

Arthur squirms a little, however, going gentle underneath you as you bob your head. The press of your tongue to a sensitive vein on the underside of his cock tears a guttural noise from his throat. 

He drags a hand over his eyes, his brain still sleep-addled. It’s incredibly difficult to think of the future when you’re putting him through such a range of emotions, but he can hardly consider an alternative to falling asleep with you again when he’s finished. 

Your technique is insistent, loaded like a gun. How you can put fondness into an act he used to equate with disrespect he will never understand. It’s useless to try and talk you out of sex acts that are so tilted in his favour, Arthur grips your hair a little tighter. For whatever reason, you’ve decided he deserves this. 

“That’s---” his breathing comes out uneven, you look up at him with your eyes wide and inquisitive. “that’s good, that’s real,” a soft, content noise interrupts him, “good.” 

You resist the urge to smile, hollowing your cheeks instead and making him reel. His praise, while not entirely rare is always a peculiar brand of sweet. 

The noises, to your delight, increase in frequency. His cock throbs in your mouth, twitching like his legs as he tries not to force himself deeper. You trace patterns over the sharp bone of his hip, just how he likes it. Arthur’s grip on your head fluctuates between a heart-melting gentleness and a raw, needy roughness. 

He’s vocal when he’s close, always is. It comes from somewhere deep, both a desire to let go and a desire to spare you from what you never deny yourself. You keep your mouth around him even as he finishes, coaxing him through a languid orgasm that makes his toes curl. 

Arthur tastes like salt and bitterness, but you’d have it no other way. He’s important to you, it’s a small act but you hope it might help confirm it in his mind. He’s loved, you just hope one day that he’ll believe that. 

His grip on your hair loosens with an air of finality, but it doesn’t fall away. You’re meticulous, waiting until the sensation of warmth in his limbs gives way to heaviness. Arthur’s worn-out all over again. 

But when you pull away, exactly one thing is on his mind. He wastes no time when you lie beside him, rolling on to his side and forcing himself to move. Reciprocation is the decent thing to do, he tells himself. And he thinks it’s his turn for fingers in his hair.


	3. Silvering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the way arthur talks about himself in the mirror was heartbreaking. so i fixed it.

You’re predisposed to taking him seriously when every mirror on earth presents similar temptation. The road to liking oneself is fraught and it is very long, made more difficult by specific circumstances. 

In your opinion, he has it worst of all. 

So you’ve heard how he speaks to himself when he thinks no one’s listening, how he looks when he thinks no one’s watching. You do your best to hear and to see what others either have no time or no wish to. It leaves you privy to some truly heartbreaking situations. 

Perhaps you challenge his desire to hate himself with so much persistence because no one afforded you the same. Maybe things might’ve been different if someone did. You can almost heart Arthur Morgan’s inner monologue, which he has the presence of mind not to speak aloud in this situation. 

He’s thinking he’s old as he stands in front of the ornate mirror. He’s thinking he’s thirty-six and it’s already too late for this kind of coddling.

But, as you’ve reminded him, persistence is a friend of yours. 

“Enough of that,” you say, resting your chin on his shoulder and peering into the reflective glass. Arthur looks at you, confused. 

“Didn’t say nothin’,” he insists and you give a slight roll of your eye. 

“Look at your face, precious. You don’t have to. My goodness, have you never heard the phrase ‘if looks could kill’?” You ask. Arthur’s shoulders roll, a habit when he’s uncomfortable. He doesn’t mean to dislodge you from your spot, you know and you silence his worries of that by staying still.

“Sure, I heard it,” he replies. 

“Well, you should know that it doesn’t only apply to other people. You’re really not so bad, I don’t understand why you look at yourself like you would an enemy.” You say, putting your hands definitively on his hips. 

“S’just talk,” he says, you hum like you don’t believe him. “didn’t mean to do any harm. M’sorry.” 

“Don’t say it to me,” you kiss his shoulder, pulling his hips defiantly back against yours. You give a pointed nod at the mirror. “tell it to the one getting hurt.” 

“You gotta be kiddin’ me,” Arthur drawls, a laugh in his voice that suggests you can stop the joke. 

Oh, he would like it very much if you were joking, wouldn’t he? 

“Ah, ah, ah,” you say, trailing your hands from his hips to the hem of his shirt that’s tucked into his trousers. “are you making fun of me?” 

“I might be,” he replies, “on account of you actin’ stupid.” 

You very pointedly pull his shirt up from the hem of his pants, giving Arthur a steely look as you start to unbutton it from the bottom. Moving upwards, his chest is revealed slowly in the mirror. And he lets you do it, for the most part, a sinking feeling in his chest as he tries to wonder at what you have in store for him. 

“I’m not the one saving the most horrid things I can think of for my own reflection,” you give his shoulder another kiss to contrast your rather sharp tone. “not any more, anyway. This matters to me, darling.” 

“What’re you playin’ at?” He asks instead of responding as you seek to rid him of his shirt. You beam broadly, tugging his top off his shoulders and dropping it to the floor next to you. With his skin bared, you seek to touch him with much less specificity. 

You drag your fingers up his chest, feeling muscles twitch and tense. The skin of his neck is slowly but surely tinged a soft, pink colour from the rouge on your lips. You grab at his skin, at his warmth as if you want to hold what makes him desirable in your hands. Maybe then he’d be unable to deny it. 

“I’m not playing, Arthur,” you say, keeping your tone light so as not to scare him. But he can tell you’ve never been more serious. Nevertheless, he stays still, unwilling to attract your displeasure this late in the evening. 

He says nothing, as nothing will ensure you keep touching him how you do. Arthur both distrusts and requires this kind of contact, leaning in so that he doesn’t stiffen up and insult you. Your lips at his neck have a way of putting all thoughts from his mind, positive or negative. 

This far from camp and surrounded by this much activity, he lets himself tell you how much he appreciates this. He exhales, he grunts and, when you scrape your teeth where his jaw meets his throat, he moans. 

“Now that,” you whisper in his ear, making him open his eyes and stare headlong into the mirror, “is all I want to hear from you for now.” 

Arthur nods without really meaning to, a gesture that defers the power into your corner. He would have it no other way. 

“Good,” you continue, exploring his body like it is uncharted and new. You always touch him with so much reverence, even as your grip turns firm and makes him similarly stiff. 

He trusts you enough to lean bodily against you, his eyes flutter shut out of impulse as you drag your fingers over his stomach. 

“Open your eyes.” You tell him, he lets his head fall back on your shoulder and he looks up at you with the barest hint of the smile you so love. “Look at yourself.” 

Arthur’s mind appears to be wandering the lower your hands dip. The metal of his belt buckle is warm to the touch and you fiddle with it, watching as he does what you say. He heaves a sigh at the sight of himself in the mirror, clearly unsure about what you have planned. 

“Don’t look away, either,” you specify as your hands undo the buttons keeping his trousers closed. Gingerly, you pull his cock out, giving it a small stroke. Arthur tenses in front of you but he keeps his eyes trained on you in the mirror. 

“Do we gotta—” he starts, looking unsure, “we gotta do this here?” You nod and very pointedly place another kiss on his neck. 

“Relax, lover,” you mumble next to his skin. That gets him good, you can practically feel the moment he hears it reflected in the tightness of his throat. Arthur’s an easy man to please, in your good opinion. It stings to think that no one’s bothered to try before.

You’re slow to introduce what you want from him, taking your time to get him hard against your palm. He keeps still, his arms hanging at his sides with only the occasional movement. But he denies himself from touching you, from turning and kissing the lips currently doting on his pulse point. 

“I want you to repeat a few things for me, Arthur. Can you do that?” You look at him through the mirror and watch his eyes flit to yours. 

“Okay,” he says, his voice clearly confused despite his agreement. 

“I am a good man,” you start. Unfortunately, there is where you end. Arthur’s mouth screws up into an unimpressed smile.

“I ain’t gonna stand ‘ere an lie while I look at you,” he replies. You give his cock a squeeze, a little warning to behave. 

“Well, you’ll not be looking at me, lover. You’ll be looking at yourself, ideally.” You explain. “But if you’d rather touch yourself, instead—” your grip on him barely loosens a fraction before his arm’s hooking around your hip, keeping you close. 

“I’m a good man,” he says, right in the mirror as you request. His gaze is unblinking, watching himself and his needy expression. 

“There’s my love,” you coo, readjusting your hold on him and pumping his cock very slowly. “now, I am handsome.” 

“I’m handsome,” he says, there’s a scoff in his voice that you dislike, but you leave it alone for the moment. 

“Good, very good,” you chime in, he gets another kiss to the back of his shoulder for his cooperation. “I quite agree.”

“You said it,” he replies, that self-deprecating amusement still heavy in his tone. 

“And now you have, too,” you give his cock another squeeze, but there is no desire in you to do him any harm. Arthur’s eyes close for a moment and you let him enjoy the sensation. “because it’s true.”

“Whatever you say,” he sounds dismissive, you steel your resolve.  
“Exactly, whatever I say. Now—” you pick up the pace a little bit, swiping your thumb over the head now coloured a deep burgundy. “I’m brave and important.”

“Maybe one day.” He says after a short laugh. But he opens his eyes again, only to be met with you glaring. 

“No, right now. You are right this minute. I mean it.” Perhaps it’s the intensity of your tone that shocks him most. Arthur drops his eyes to your hand, trying to find clarity in the lustful haze

“Come on, I already said sorry.” Arthur replies. You let out a soft sigh. 

“And I told you that wasn’t the one getting hurt. Look at yourself. I love you, Arthur.” And the fact that your persistence continues to the last sentence is clearly what shocks him now. He’s said he loves you so many times, and you’ve returned it, but there’s nothing quite like hearing it said first.

“Love you, too.” He means it, you can tell. 

“Now, do you remember what I asked you to say? It matters, lover.” You ask, looking at him with a mischievousness he’s unaccustomed to. The feeling of you so close to him, wanting him so much chases any memory of what you said from his mind. Arthur shakes his head.

“Might, uh— might need you to repeat it,” he says, his voice sounds uneven and pleasure-wracked. It’s music to your ears. 

Pre-come flows from the head of his cock, now tinged a near-purple colour with desire. He twitches and throbs in your hand, Arthur’s hips buck irregularly against your firm grip. You comply, repeating yourself and waiting for him to parrot it. He’s brave an important, he says it with stronger conviction than before. 

Perhaps he doesn’t believe it now, but he’s assured that you do. You’re touching him because you desire him, and the flutter of his heart is like a song. You’re telling him these things because you know them to be true. 

“Good, good,” you praise. His shoulders weigh against your chest more heavily. His knees shake but Arthur refuses to collapse. 

He doesn’t let himself break the rules, no matter how badly he’d like to turn his head and remind you that you are so loved. Arthur shows it by keeping his eyes on the scandalous sight in the mirror. He squirms, actually squirms in minute embarrassment. He didn’t know his expression could be rearranged to show such want. He didn’t know his eyes could hold such a lustful glaze. 

Your head is bowed over his neck, nibbling at his skin and disrupting his few remaining faculties. 

“Gonna—” he starts and you make a sound like the coo of a dove. It’s clear you have no intention of stopping him from coming. Arthur’s throaty moans deepen, growing louder as you stroke him with a bit more fervency. 

He’s coaxed to his climax, your lips at his jugular and your arms wrapped around him. Arthur isn’t sure if his moan sounds like your name or if it’s the other way around. He gasps as he spills onto your hand, the floor and the front of that goddamn mirror. 

You lift your head just as he finishes, watching his face contort into a concentrated pleasure. Your hand still moves, pulling from him every good feeling and every gasp. He still manages to stay upright, but you offer up the strength he momentarily lacks. 

What you say is of very little consequence, it’s idle praise for good behaviour and reminders of love. Arthur listens dimly, but responds more noticeably to your physical insistences. You pull him towards the bed, towards the waiting pillows and unmade covers. 

The mirror sits across the room, reflecting the way you make him very comfortable. Arthur is, after all, a very easy man to please.


	4. Obscura

He curls his hand around a new challenge to the concept of art. And he tells you to let your hair down.

This is it, you sit on the bastion of decency and wonder if it might be the very last one. You’ve made love to him over and over, your moonlit howls have burst the silence like buttons on an old dress. That isn’t the issue here. 

You’ve reminded the stars what your lover’s name is so many times that even midnight couldn’t sleep. 

But now he asks for something else, something more than independent coupling. He wants your body immortalized. He asks you, in a way, to turn a private act the demure box on three stilts. It’s a few paces from you, pointed towards the chair on which you sit. 

Arthur is specific with his instructions. And he wavers.

“Take your hair down, please?” He tries again when you make a face.

“For you?” You ask.

“‘Course it’s for me. Ain’t nobody else’s gonna ever see these.” He replies with a stony sincerity. You know that’s true but you have to tease.

“You sure one of your little friends isn’t going to get their mitts on it, Arthur?” You say with a little lilt to your voice. He adjusts the camera lens and doesn’t seem to find the comment funny.

“Now you’re just talkin’ foolish,” he grumbles. You can tell he’s hurt at your implications. 

“Oh, love, I’m sorry,” you sigh. You’ve got a trick up your sleeve, a favourite pet name of his. It’s only gently used, not as well-worn as darling. 

“Just—” he starts, “trust me on this. Wouldn’t ask if I—”

“If you didn’t get stiff as a board at the thought, I know.” You finish. Arthur’s cheeks turn a handsome, ruddy colour. 

“Don’t gotta be coarse.” He snaps but there’s no bite.

“You’re the one who wants to have photographic documentation of my—” you cut yourself off with a similarly flustered look on your face and a smile.

“Yeah, and you agreed.” He reminds you. 

“That’s right, I did. But I wonder if it’s too late to amend the terms of the agreement.” You wonder aloud.

“How so?”

“I want a picture of your cock, love.” You say, Arthur snorts at the brazen tone.

“I’ll consider it. But just— yeah, that’s it.” He comments as you raise your hands to the uncomplicated bun at the crown of your head. 

The hairpins clink on the wood panel floor as you drop them. 

He thinks you look beautiful, but doesn’t want to make you shrink like the violets embroidered at the hem of your housecoat. It’s an old thing, but open at the front and paired with the soft curve of your otherwise naked body? He’s not about to focus on the tiny flaws, not when there’s broad strokes of perfection surrounding them.

You’re sitting straight in the frayed-but-ornate chair, one bare leg crossed over the other. The house coat falls down the back of your shoulders, big enough to bunch around your hips. 

Your hair falls around your neck, haphazard in a way that he finds so much more appealing than what’s on the postcards. 

Trelawny’s stash is riveting but passionless in context, Arthur came to you with an otherwise interesting request. It feels wrong, having made him beg for this when you’re beginning to enjoy yourself. 

You feel exposed to something other than his gaze. The camera lens is an unfeeling, third pupil through which too many strange pairs of eyes peer. And it excites you. 

“Would you smile for me?” Arthur asks next. So many demands, you think but don’t say. He’d clamp right up, even if it were just a joke.

“Smile?” You ask, not at all opposed to the idea but instead fishing for a new way to terrorize him. Arthur doesn’t see it coming.

“Yeah— they, uh, they smile in the postcards. ‘Least, sometimes they do. I don’t matter much f’you don’t wanna—” Arthur stutters, he’s looking down at the camera now instead of at you.

“Kiss me.” You tell him like you’re cutting a bargain. Not quite, you know he’s going to get what he wants either way. But he looks taken aback for a moment before he shuffles forward. Your eyes close and you feel rough hands at your chin. 

He tilts your face towards his, all stubbled and perfect. He kisses you for longer than is usually permitted outside of risqué activity. This pass-time takes up a grey space between sex and intimacy, you’re quite fond of it. When Arthur pulls away, you nod. 

“I’ll smile for you, lovie.” You agree. But he’s the one who does, just for a second. 

“And—” he begins as he starts back behind the camera. He reaches around and taps the side of the lens. “look right here.” 

“Is that how it’s done in your postcards?” You tease. Arthur shrugs. 

“Not really, the people usually stare off into space.” He admits. You lift an eyebrow. 

“Why the deviation?” You ask. 

“I like it when you look at me,” Arthur answers, more matter-of-fact than you expect. Fair enough, you beam at the lens. 

He has to say he prefers your unbridled joy to any come-hither stare. You position yourself independent of his wishes, he wants you as you are and not as he would tell you to be. 

But he’s not expecting it when you uncross your legs, hooking one over the comfortable chair-arm upholstered in velvet. 

“Like this?” You offer up, you know damn well it is. You lift your arms, crossing them above your head and twisting your bare chest towards the camera. He can’t imagine it to be especially comfortable, but it’s painfully erotic. 

And through all of it subsists a stunning, gentle smile that he finds unfairly inviting. 

He takes the picture before either of you can change your mind, effectively saving this precious moment from the ravages of his feeble memory. You arrange yourself into a more relaxed position, the arch of your back less excessive, although your knee still stays thrown over the left arm of the chair. 

You lift your eyes to his, then, away from the camera. Your smile changes slightly, a little more embarrassed. He’s going to have to get that photograph printed, you realize. Arthur didn’t lie when he said it was for him alone, but some other man in the privacy of a dark room will stare at it. 

It’s an exciting thought, but no more exciting than the ones playing out on Arthur’s face. Goodness, he’s handsome without even trying. 

In the end, you don’t have to tell him to come to you. Arthur retraces the steps he took when you asked him for a kiss. But now, he stops and does not reach for your face. He sinks to his knees, making the boards underneath his groan and show their age. 

“What are you going to do to me, love?” You ask, still looking overjoyed to have his skin against yours. He touches your knee, pushes it a little further up the armchair so his angles better. You slide forward in seat, twisting your wrist above your head and grabbing hold of the high back. 

“Gonna—” Arthur cuts himself off like he can’t resist kissing your thigh. His scruff rubs deliciously against your sensitive skin. He starts at your inner knee, pressing sloppy kisses and nuzzling at you with his nose. He keeps his hands at his sides. 

“Are you going to taste me?” You ask, one hand leaving the chair-back and resting at the back of his head. His hair feels soft, clean to the touch. You urge him forward with a loose grip. “That’s my good boy, I know you want to.” 

And he does, he’s kissing with greater fervour. He wants to reach between your thighs but feels compelled to love every inch before it. 

Your hand in his hair becomes more pleasantly insistent. No longer does it guide him, instead he’s pulled forward at your whim and finds his lips brushing your folds a little earlier than he would’ve arrived at his own pace. But he cares very little, whatever the model desires.

He kisses your core, his tongue locked behind his teeth. There’s an element of exploratory ritual to the way he moves, pressing his mouth to you over and over again. Arthur glances up, searching for your expression and finding your eyes lust-filled. You stare at him, no urgency in your gaze now that he’s where you want him to be. 

Mumbled praise falls from your throat, the ends of words run into the start of others until Arthur can’t tell the difference. But it sounds loving, encouraging, the antithesis of how people speak to him usually. He basks in the sound of your voice cooing his name. 

He touches his tongue to you, giving one experimental lick that has you sighing already. You’re sensitive beyond words, he loves it dearly. 

Arthur’s true to what he never actually states out loud, he tastes you with tentative strokes of his tongue against your folds. His eyes close, it’s too easy for him to get lost in the sensation of the way you tug on his hair. 

He laps at your clit, focusing in on it when you guide him in that direction. You taste clean, a little sweeter than he expected and Arthur’s keen to press the flat of his tongue against your entrance. 

Your faint gasps and gentle whines spur him on, but still his hands stay by his sides. His cock is straining against his trousers, now, but Arthur doesn’t dare put his palm to it. Your desires come first, he’d have it no other way. 

“Arthur—” his name’s spoken like a circle-song, repeated over and over at different pitches. He never thought he could like the sound of his own name so much. You twist it into new configurations, bending old syllables into new shapes. He likes how much you like him, more than you will ever know.

“S’it good?” He asks, chasing validation in a way he would find unsettling. This whole situation, he knows, would be unsettling in different circumstances. But Arthur can’t deny that there is no one else on earth he would willingly kneel for. 

“Mhm,” you say. He opens his eyes and catches sight of your head pressed to the back of the arm chair, eyes glazed over with lust. Arthur’s cock twitches terribly. “you’re very— you’re very talented.”

His face goes hot, licking at your entrance with flat, broad strokes. Your grip loosens in his hair, turning your inclination towards more gentle touches. He’ll allow it, but it’s not as dear to his heart as a good yanking. 

When Arthur pushes his tongue inside you, however, quiet sounds of encouragement no longer suffice. He’s thrown for a loop at how loud you speak his name, your eyes squeezing shut. It’s a beautiful sight, he has to admit. 

He returns his attention to the little bundle of nerves slightly above, finally lifting a hand and pressing a finger into you. In your seat, you squirm. Your face burns hot, the hand not occupied with gripping his head no longer rests passively. You grip the back of the chair for dear life, holding on to the ornate gilding. 

Slowly, you push your hips forward against Arthur’s fingers and tongue. He grunts, but doesn’t stop you. You thrust, bodily, caring little for who else is privy to the sounds that you make. 

Arthur moves back like you’re ordering him with the curve of your sigh and the pitch of your voice. You say nothing that could be English, but he curls his fingers in you so brilliantly that you have no choice to be silent. 

Who cares if your morals have been dropped to the floor like hairpins, you’re getting in a little quality time with your cowboy. He prods and he pokes and he rocks with your hips until you could beg him for your release.

But you don’t. That’s his job. Later. 

For now, you can brush your fingers against your impending orgasm. It feels like the skin on his chest, softer than he thinks. You tilt your head back, digging nails into velvet as Arthur’s tongue laps at you like the waves do the lakeshore. 

And when that glow wraps around you, of course it’s his full name pulled from you. Not a screech, not a cry. It’s a soft, thin whimper and it settles heavily in his ears. It’s dropped like the sick thud of a cannonball, so much for small things meaning nothing. 

You go limp and he’s been loved hard enough by you to know that does not signal departure. He slows the movement of his fingers, but does not immediately stop. Arthur teases the last few spasms deep inside you with gentle licks at your clit. 

And then his jobs done. He sits back and awaits further instructions. Arthur puts his index finger in his mouth, licking the taste of you from it. 

“Good,” you tell him, breathless. “real good. Just— just give me a minute, love.” Your smile’s back, hesitant and fluttering. “Then it’s my turn with the camera.”


	5. Death of Daylight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is largely inspired by the concept of segmented sleep, (first and second sleep) involving a natural period of wakefulness between four-hour blocks of rest.

There is very little better, in your opinion, than to wake to the faint glow of a kerosene lamp and the sound of Arthur’s pen scratching.

He fills the hours between a fairly regular segmentation of sleep schedules with his most vulnerable thoughts. Or at least, that’s what you like to imagine as you wake from four hours of rest. 

You’re perhaps a bit lazy at this time of night, lying abed and listening to him put what occupies his mind on paper. You’ll tease him when you turn, you tell yourself. Something witty about being able to see what he’s thinking dance around his head before he stuffs it in a journal. 

But when you do, he steals the words right from your mouth. Not through verbal interruption, but simply by expression. He’s so handsome, you think instead of a new way to poke fun. How on earth is he mine? 

Arthur turns then and his look of concentration shifts to one of worry around the edges. He closes the leather-bound journal in his hands and moves to set it aside. 

“Didn’t wake you, did I?” He asks, his voice is still sleep-gruff. You don’t imagine he’s been up much longer than you. Languidly, you shake your head. 

“No, love. Not at all.” You tell him, shifting closer towards his warm thigh. The chill off the lake will never fail to surprise you. 

You lift your head into his lap, closing your eyes for a brief moment. The red-wool union suit scratches your cheek a bit but you don’t really mind. 

His heavy hand settles just above your ear, large and warm. Arthur’s fingers curl protectively into your hair, brushing it back away from your forehead with a rhythm that feels learned. Gentleness does not and has never come naturally to him, but his efforts are worth more than gold. They weigh on your chest like bricks. 

“Not gonna go back t’sleep already, are you?” He asks, taking up the mantle of trickster after you discarded it for love. But there is no doubt in your mind that his comes from a similar place. You smile but he can’t see it, Arthur can only hear it in your voice. 

“Might do, if you don’t want anything from me,” you reply. Above you, Arthur’s hand freezes. You turn to your right until you’re lying flat on your back, looking up at your lover. He can see your smile, now. “you feel like having fun?”

He knows how you mean it, it makes his chest go heavy. But you can’t feel that, you can only feel the pleasant sting of adoration as his hard face softens once more. Anything for you, his eyes say. His mouth says something different. 

“F’that’s what you want,” Arthur decides. You sit up enough to press a sleep-addled kiss to his jaw. This encounter will be lukewarm, hardly steamy and wholly needed. He doesn’t sleep enough, doesn’t sleep with you enough. 

“Want you,” you mumble, still all smiles as you contort to find new places to put your mouth. 

His collarbone, poking demurely from the scoop-neck of his union suit is a strong contender. The thick column of his neck is fun to nibble on. Even tired, still rising from the darkness of unconsciousness he’s responsive. His noises are not loud, they require a special ear to understand. Your hands go to his tensed shoulders, tracing circles with your thumbs to coax them to relax. 

Arthur wants you, too. His arms wrap loosely around your waist, hands holding your back. His fingers splay out as if to touch as much of you as possible. And then they bunch in the fabric of your chemise, pulling up, up, up so he might have his skin warmed by your own. 

You steady yourself half-across his lap, one knee on either side of a muscular thigh. Astride his leg you feel a little silly, but in no rush to fix your choice. This will do, you’d like to go back to sleep within the hour. 

He seems to understand that haste is not your predominant expression, quite the opposite. But you’re a woman of wants with hips that move minutely against his thigh as you pepper kisses to his throat. 

Arthur grips you a little tighter, but still lazily as he struggles to find an occupation. Your mouth to his neck, inviting as spring makes him useless. But through the haze of pleasure you give him he finds a way to return the favour. His hands, now under your shift and against your bare back move lower. 

He feels your giggle against his pulse as he squeezes your rear. It’s a desired effect, enough to distract you so he might impart a fraction of how you make him feel. You lean back, forearms still braced against his shoulders. 

While no one could classify him as a hopeless romantic —he has an odd relationship with his own ability to love hard— he touches you with a shocking tenderness. His momentary deviation downwards doesn’t last, Arthur begins the process of pushing your chemise up your back. 

You take it as a cue, drawing your hands to just above his heart. With another, blistering smile you try to undo as many of the little, white shell buttons as possible before he can undress you. Arthur has an easier time of it and you dread having to pull away before more than half of his chest is exposed. 

He casts the lace-trimmed affair previously clothing you somewhere towards the edge of the tent. You hear a soft thump as it hits the ground and the pendulum swings in Arthur’s favour. 

It’s his turn to render you speechless with seeking hands. He hauls you to him by the waist, holding you to his chest as he explores the top of your breasts with his lips. His scruff is an ever-present but not entirely unpleasant sensation. He scratches at you with a gentleness no one could ever expect, he loves how he wants to be loved. 

You moan for him as he takes your right nipple in his mouth, palming at your chest with a hand that now only trembles slightly. He’s too tired for worries and reservations. And you say his name in a way that could be addictive. You arch your back towards his mouth, saying with body language only that you want more. 

“Not fair,” you say, now above him and unable to distract with kisses and touches. Your hands go to the back of his head, pushing dirty-blonde hair through your fingers and tugging gently. He groans against your skin. 

Arthur’s well aware of the way your hips no longer behave unnoticeably. You rock against him, curling inward towards him. Your lips are to the top of his head, hands at the back. You’ve found a way to make him speechless again. 

So he pulls away from you because he wants another kiss. A real kiss with a little more life. Lethargic sex is a balancing act like no other, but you grab at him like your love for him could make the sun rise right now. It won’t, thank god. 

He’s tired so he lays you down, pushing you gently and guiding you back onto your side. The blankets are pooled at your lower calves, kicked away in resulting shenanigans. You smirk as he follows you, lying near enough to reach. Undoing the rest of his buttons comes easy enough, Arthur shrugs off his union suit like it’s a burden. 

His cock is warm and thick, half-hard you discover as you take it in your fist. Even with exhaustion creeping in again, Arthur knows what’s wanted of him. You part your legs when his hand comes seeking, his fingers brushing against your core. 

Your eyes fall shut momentarily, all aching sensations meet their end as his middle finger circles your clit. Arthur doesn’t mind, even when your hand stills. He’s doing right by you, pulling soft moans from the back of your throat. If he could catch every sigh in the air and lock them behind the leather of his journal he would do it. 

But you remember yourself and begin to stroke him again. You open your eyes to look at him, his own want reflected in his ocean-coloured eyes. 

“You’re so handsome,” you say, breathy and slightly desperate. Arthur presses against your clit a little more firmly, making your hips thrust unexpectedly against his hand. 

“Come on,” he says. His voice is low, he’s so near to you he needn’t lift it. Better to save his energy for other things. “stop talkin’.” Arthur’s incorrect, but he doesn’t need to blush this late at night. You can understand that. 

“I love you,” you try again. It’s harder for him to dispute that with the way your thumb circles the head of his length. He’s bucking against your fist as well, for what it’s worth. 

“Love you,” he starts. “too.” A quiet curse word divides the sentiment from the addition. You would smile if it weren’t for Arthur’s strategic decision to slip his index finger inside you. 

An element of preparation is always necessary where he’s concerned. You feel boneless already, lazily enjoying the way he expertly prods and presses inside you. When your lidded eyes fly open, he knows he’s found the right spot. 

He teases you there a little, adding fingers and removing them as you decide how you’ll have him. Could have anything, both of you know it. All you’d need to do is ask. But this closeness, your leg loosely hooked around his hip and both your hands occupied— it will more than suffice. 

You think a lot as you wiggle your core towards his, moving an arm around his neck again and leaving the other to rub slowly at the little bud of nerves above where he enters. You think about how you should do this more often, even as he slips inside you. The sensation of knowing a different side of someone beautiful persists. 

Holding on to him comes as naturally as breathing. Arthur fills you deliciously, pressing against sensitive places. He can make charted territory feel new so effortlessly. 

His groan in your ear when he’s as far inside you as is possible is more reserved than even he expects. But in it is a lustful compliment. You press your forehead to his warm shoulder as he begins to move. Slow and shallow doesn’t begin to describe his thrusts. Arthur stays in you as much as he possibly can, barely exerting himself as he leads you towards a climax. 

The whole affair is sluggish and good. So good. He’s sturdy to lean against, the best place you can think of to properly come undone. His rock-like muscles are a safe spot to rely on as his other intrusion makes you shiver and shake. Arthur’s arms flex as they hold you, fighting off the urge to buck wildly. 

He wants it slow, as do you. It’s too late for wild, sundown fucking. 

“Good?” He grunts in your ear. So guttural is the sound of his voice that you barely make out that it’s a word, let alone a question. But the quirk at the end tips you off. Who’s talking too much now? You think, but you don’t speak it. 

In response, you only say his name.

He’s gentlemanly even after midnight. Arthur presses himself in you until your orgasm’s impending. He holds you as it laps at your stomach, spreading outwards like a slow fire. It licks all the way to your toes, making them curl as you dig your heel into his rear. 

With you bearing down around him, he doesn’t last much longer. Your aptly creeping climax pushes his near-after yours with barely enough space to let you bask in the afterglow. He has to leave you too soon and it’s certainly a shortcoming. But not one that leaves you crying out for more. Arthur finishes on your inner thighs with a stuttering moan that goes unmuffled. It’s the loudest of the evening, you can’t help the rising pride in your chest. 

You needn’t ask if it was any good, you know it was. Arthur’s rendered hopeless again, ready to hold you to him and sink back into a peaceful sleep until dawn. You decide that sounds absolutely perfect. 

He grabs for the blankets, tugging them over your entwined bodies. In the space between his departure to extinguish the kerosene lamp and Arthur’s return, you’ve fallen asleep. He gathers you up in his arms in the way least likely to disturb you.

There is very little better, in his opinion, that to fall asleep to the sound of your heartbeat and the dark of night surrounding.


	6. Monture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a short update this time, hope you like it!

You encourage him to approach love from a place of safety. He has the tendency to view it as a pit, a terrible drop and a sudden stop. He’s never loved before and escaped with unbroken bones, an uncrushed heart. 

So you invite him to consider that something as big as love can be found in smaller acts. It can be his good, strong hands tied together and strung up to the iron headboard. It can be the fragility of your scarf used to do the bindings. 

He could escape, he could tear the fabric like it’s grating silk. But he stays still, watches you with heavy-lidded eyes the colour of sea-foam. 

“You look real handsome, all trussed up.” You speak to the skin of his bare thighs. You’ve pulled his trousers around his ankles, unbuttoned his best vest and dress shirt to render him vulnerable. 

His tie slid between your fingers. You played with it, twisting it and asking in a very serious voice if he wanted to be blindfolded tonight. He shook his head. Not tonight, not when you’ll be working so much magic. 

The tie was cast aside. He received a kiss to prove that you weren’t disappointed.

There is very little pain Arthur would not bear for you, it’s what scares him. If you wanted unspeakable things, he’d do them. He’d offer up his body. That’s what scares you. But he likes the illusion you paint, tacking him down. You can tell it isn’t just to placate you.

“Feel like—” he reels at your lips brush a sensitive bruise on the soft curve of his inner thigh. Time and leisure makes his carved muscle secondary to a fuller figure. “one of them bugs pinned down in a frame.” 

“Or a butterfly,” you correct with an experimental kiss to a red-purple bruise in the shape on your rounded mouth. 

He can’t spread his legs further, his trousers keep his ankles where they are. But you’re pleased with the fact he isn’t hiding from you, coaxing him from his shell was no easy feat. 

“Was thinkin’ along the lines of one of them big beetles,” he continues. You kiss his skin again, more firmly. 

“No,” is all you say, soft but with a seriousness that demands he concede your point. A sweet man he might be, but what you wouldn’t give for him to be sweet on himself. 

The conversation lapses into quiet after that, the occasional moan from his willing mouth breaking the silence ass you pepper his soft thighs with kisses. He’s more encouraging of nips and bites, you’ve noticed. You shudder to think why. 

His cock lies against his stomach, hard and twitching. Veins run from head to tip, greedily you consider putting your tongue to them so soon in the evening. But prolonging his pleasure’s far nicer. 

“I have to wait just as much as you do,” you say, all adoring and amused as he tugs gently on his bindings. 

The fantasy that you’ve caught him, tied him up at your mercy is his favourite part. He likes to toy with it a little, really can’t help himself. You worry your teeth against the skin near his knee, drawing further and further away from the lustful ache at his pelvis. 

He didn’t understand denial until you introduced him, he considers it a good friend at this point. Arthur tries to keep from bucking his hips too wildly, you are not opposed to holding him down if necessary. Right now, he wants to be good for you. 

You want him to say please, he can tell by the way your eyes flit back to his length. When you smile at him, your face feels hot. But you can’t give in, to give him everything he wants—

Arthur wonders if he’s done something wrong by the way you pause, but you move too quickly. He has no time to ask if you’re all right, you’ve put the head of his cock in your mouth by then. He can’t bite back the moan he’s holding behind his teeth, all he can do is try not to thrash. 

But you do feel good, better than good with the way you set about tasting all the parts of him you’ve denied yourself. 

“Why—” Arthur doesn’t mind this development, nor can he articulate what he wants to ask beyond a word. Your lips are wrapped around him and he sighs at the loss when you lift your head. 

“I love you,” you say like it’s obvious, to be expected. “why should I deny you anything?” You move to busy yourself again before thinking twice. When you speak, you sound far more aloof. “Why should I deny myself anything, hm?” 

If Arthur had his journal and the use of his hands he might be able to articulate how warm that makes him feel. His pleasure’s front-and-centre, yours something of an afterthought at the moment. It’s not an ideal order in his opinion, but it does feel nice to be loved. 

He sounds more guttural when he moans again, your fist has wrapped around the part of his cock that won’t be fit into your mouth. His declaration of love is lost somewhere within, but you hear it. You always hear it.


	7. Cosmia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short, sfw update (one of many) with a little arthur-pillow-talk!!

Arthur’s fond of conversation when his words are not held to scrutiny. You find that even after something as taxing as an arpeggio involving both of your bodies, he’ll find something to comment on. The depth of post-sex discussion depend upon the mood, upon any prior statements.

In this case, you know what he means when he says “Don’t really see what the big deal of votin’ is. I never do it.”

It’s impressive he doesn’t toss this topic over his shoulder, let it sink like a stone in a lake. If he were opposed to the idea you would pause, evaluate the best amalgamation of words inviting him to leave the hotel room as quickly as possible. But you know that he isn’t, he just doesn’t understand.

“It’s the principle of the thing,” you begin with a pointed look at him. Arthur’s head is pillowed by your chest. “All men are created equal, so says the constitution. Are women not human? Haven’t we a say? We live here, too.”

He gives a nod that speaks of some admittance. Arthur shifts beside you as if feeling for a sudden coldness in your being. You’re not mad at him for lacking enough understanding to give a correct answer.

“‘Course you’re human. I just—” he cuts himself off, turning just slightly like he’s trying not to push himself up on his elbow. He fiddles with what he’ll say a moment and finally parts with, “I just meant that I’d give you my vote f’I could. I don’t got any use for it.”

“You’re very eloquent, Arthur. Do you know that?” You ask, the act of giving him a compliment, in his mind, is similar to tossing a bone to a kicked hound. You watch his eyes strain not to roll, a half-hearted chuckle leaves him. 

“Pretty lonely business, thinkin’ so.” He insists. You shrug the naked shoulder unoccupied by his warm body. You’d hate to have him interpret the gesture incorrectly.

“I don’t think that’s right.” You decide. It’s a crisp and decisive statement that invites no further argument. 

“It don’t matter to me, either way. But thank you for sayin’ so.” It seems Arthur’s keen enough to leave this in the dust, funnily enough. However, you get the sense with the way he looks at you that he’s as flattered by your admittance as you were his. 

“Always, mon chère. You’re far too critical of yourself.” You tut. 

“What’s that mean?” He asks. You turn your head, kissing the hair covering his forehead for no specific reason. You do love him, after all. 

“It means dear en français.” You reply. 

“Knew a guy from France, name of Charles,” Arthur says, he seems to watch to decide if you’re interested. It’s a habit you’re uncomfortable with. Sometimes he won’t speak if he senses nobody cares. “He was an asshole, his words not mine. Got run outta town,” another pause, less tragic this time, “where’d you learn to speak French?”

“In school, that’s all I remember.” You admit, Arthur still looks fascinated nonetheless.

“Shit. Didn’t know they taught that.” He says, you smile at him enough to make the area around his heart palpably warm.

“You didn’t miss very much. Although I can’t speak for the quality of men’s education seeing as it’s so disparate from women’s,” you add. You watch Arthur’s brow furrow ever so slightly, “which is exactly why I’m in favour of female suffrage.”

“Thought it was just about the right to vote.” He says, he sounds sad. You again understand his confusion. He’s in possession of a brilliant mind, you’ve assured him of that so may times. You don’t mind, however, adding to that brilliance, teaching him that suffrage does not end with a vote. 

“It is, Arthur. But once we have that, we’ll need to start bringing girls’ up with the right education to make informed decisions about who to vote for.” You explain. Arthur’s eyebrows raise, he looks like he could use another kiss. But he speaks before you get the chance to give him one.

“Sounds real important.” He says. And he means it, he looks at you with something akin to a fierce pride. You’re going to change the world, you care about changing it. 

“It is, and we’ll be apart of it. So will you take me on Tuesday to the demonstration?” He knows he doesn’t need to be included in your sentiment. You can see in his eyes the positive affirmation blooming before it’s spoken. 

“Sure, maybe you could do some real good out there.” He replies. It sounds cool, partially detached out of necessity. “Still, could be a little dangerous.” 

“I’m not afraid of a little danger,” you tell him. “I’m with you, after all.” 

“Very funny,” he replies, a laugh in his voice that means your joke landed after all. You take that kiss, now. It’s chaste. 

“It’s important, like you said. Even if it’s an opportunity to get hurt.” You say. 

“It’ll make you happy?” Arthur asks. You know him, he’d scale a mountain to find something to bring you joy. Slowly, you nod. 

“Yes, it will.” You shift in bed, holding him a little tighter and resting your cheek atop his head. “What’ll make you happy, love?” 

“The first train outta the city’d do it.” He replies. You smile. “But waitin’ ‘till Tuesday evenin’ won’t do me no harm, I don’t think.”

“The things you do for me,” you tease. Arthur rolls his shoulders. It isn’t possible for him to be any closer to you, but he tries it anyway.

“Nah, ain’t nothin’. I know that. What’s happenin’ here’s bigger’n me. That’s for sure. But it ain’t bigger’n you. You should be there.” Your chest feels tight all of a sudden. 

“Like I said,” you start. You kiss him a third time, tugging his chin up in order to best press your lips to his. “very eloquent.”


	8. Pilgrim's Promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not exactly "canon", this is like??? a new reader, i guess?? idk. it's more porn

He withers beneath the smokestacks, beneath the oppressive haze of St. Denis. It’s nothing you’re not used to, even for a lack of trying, but watching people’s strung-out faces from astride a horse feel sharp and painful. 

You’ve been acquainted with this way of living for too long, shuffling around like a bloodless ghost through mill doors. You’ve ambled to and from underpaid work.

Must be worse for him, he who understands life best when surrounded by trees. It’s hard on him, that the world he knows has been the subject of selective fires. The horse trots by factory workers and children, by oppressive filth and decay. 

A lot has got to die to keep the boilers boiling. You just wish it’d keep its hands off him. Nothing should be allowed to touch him, not pain, not doubt and certainly not fear. 

But all three know him better that you, you grip his waist a little tighter and rest your cheek against his shoulder. 

“You okay back there?” Arthur asks, he turns his eyes away from the road for just a second. He tries to see your expression.

“I’m fine,” you reply, quick to gentle that concern in his voice. He doesn’t know that much about you yet. Maybe he should know. “just a little tired of all this.” 

“Don’t like it here much?” There’s amusement in his voice, it’s nice to hear. Slowly, you face forward again. 

Pressing a kiss to the back of his neck feels like cheating, but it’s too tempting to resist. Your lips touch just above his collar, at the sun-weathered skin. The muscle underneath tenses on impact, he’s still skittish. Your arms around his middle hold him like an embrace. 

“Hate it,” you mumble. It’s all he needs to hear. Arthur flicks the reins on his horse, weaving in and out of the crowd a little faster. It’s a quick trot to the gate, to be free of civilization. 

“Well, it ain’t for everyone,” he replies with the same, uplifting notes of amusement in his voice. 

“Ain’t for us,” you chime. You like the way things are always plural with him, now. It’s something you take quiet pride in. Arthur makes a noise of agreement and the city of St. Denis is left behind. 

The sky is bright and blue ahead, horse-trod mud and cobblestone streets give way to green grass and trees. You feel more at home here, but Arthur feels nothing short of alive. 

It’s amazing how much of a change takes place in him. He’s not worried about treading on toes, his mind racing to avoid the worst. It’s unfair to force him to think like an urban soul, not when he’s much better suited for what’s out here. 

“We goin’ home?” He asks you with another slight tilt to his head in your direction. You shift behind him and rest your chin on his shoulder. 

“No, thank you. If that’s all right by you.” You reply. Arthur cocks an eyebrow. 

“You got somethin’ else in mind?” He sounds curious and you decide to clue him in with yet another well-placed kiss. Your lips brush his neck, raising goosebumps on the backs of his arms. 

You answer him with nibbles and bites, telling without saying exactly what it is you have in mind for him should he be in the mood. 

“Dammit,” he mutters and pulls gently on his horse’s reigns. He steers her to the left, and sends the two of you off the invisible path back to camp. 

“Are you mad at me?” You can’t help but ask, resting your chin on the shelf of his neck. Arthur stiffens just slightly. There’s a note of joviality in his voice. 

“Not a chance,” he says, “though the same likely won’t be said for Dutch. Was in the city on his business.” 

“Don’t care what Dutch thinks,” you reply, placing another kiss to Arthur’s skin. He’d love to think he’s oh-so-indelicate, but you can feel the faintest shiver crawl up his spine. He can tremble with the best of them. 

Arthur’s unsurprised by what you say, but he still can’t help but think it a blaspheme as he heads for higher ground and greener pastures. Your hands are on him, warm and searching. You ask, without asking, for him to stop when relatively obscured by the trees. 

The city, with all its light and heat has stalled your capacity for romance. Perhaps it’s tampered with his as well, only to be awakened again by this familiar brand of peace. It’s unspoken but understood what will happen as he steadies and dismounts his horse. Here’s as good as anywhere, he figures. And it’s been some time since he took a tumble in the grass.

Ever the gentleman, Arthur helps you from his mouth. You wrap your arms expertly around him, declining to let go even when your feet touch the ground. 

“Kiss me,” you insist with a minute, upward tilt of your head. Arthur’s eyebrows lift, but he leans forward enough to press his lips against yours. 

It’s cut short by more pressing matters, your grip around his neck becomes insistent even as your swallowed by Arthur’s warmth. The fog he can settle over you, the absolute departure of all sense is close at hand. There is very little, if anything, you would not do for him. 

Which is why you lift your hands and pull the weathered hat from his head. With it disturbed, you can better push your fingers through his hair. You know how much he likes it, the gentle groan against your mouth confirms it. 

“Lemme—” he starts when the kiss is broken. Arthur steps to the side and grabs his horse’s reigns. With a quick knot done around a nearby tree branch, your way home is secured not to run off. He gives the horse a gentle pat on the neck, assuring under his breath as you watch sunlight filter through green leaves that she’s a good girl. That you two won’t be gone long.

You extend the offering of a hand, which Arthur gladly takes. With you only a pace ahead, you lead him away. 

“Why stay, f’you hate it so much?” He asks as you walk. You can’t help your bemused smile as you turn to look at him. 

“You a runner, Mister Morgan?” You ask. He gives a vague shrug. 

“By nature, in fact,” he replies. 

“I get it. Runners run and workers toil,” you keep your tone light in spite of the conversation careening towards truthful and unsexy. 

“Think we’re really so different?” He asks. “Runners can toil. And workers—” you’re stopped very suddenly, he must’ve found the place he wants to do this. 

He catches up to you, pulling your form tight against his chest and requesting with a brush of his scruffy cheek against your jaw for another kiss. To deny him would be monstrous. 

There is no true fight for control, Arthur’s chosen the spot but declines to do much else besides kiss the breath from your lungs. 

“I don’t want to run,” you tease, your hands move lightning-quick. You’ve done and undone his buttons only a handful of times before, he wonders how you’ve gotten so good at it already. 

But before he can truly wonder, his vest hits the forest floor with a sigh. Your hands on his shoulders encourage grass stains on the knees of his trousers. 

Your back is pressed only slightly uncomfortably to a tree, the bark a constant but dull presence as Arthur shifts through a few layers of plain petticoats. But, he thinks, it’s interesting to shift your dull-grey dress only to find a bright-red underskirt hiding just beneath

He lifts both, regardless of their colour with little shame at all. Arthur leans in like a moth to flame, kissing your knees and encouraging you to part your legs. Like you need any insistence whatsoever to comply. 

You hook one leg over his shoulder, granting him access to an intimate space. He explores your mound with his lips, first, kissing broadly and open-mouthed. Above him, you shiver and place a grounding hand to the back of his head. 

Arthur still has no idea what he’s doing. But he’s found that concentrating smaller, more precise licks towards the hairline fracture between your legs produces favourable results. He shifts forward even further, pushing you up and back against the tree as he emboldens his approach. 

You sigh freely, content that you’re safe wherever he is. There is no threat great enough to stop your eyes from closing, from your head lolling to the side as Arthur’s tongue explores between folds and over sensitive skin. 

A sharp gasp tells him he’s treading on pleasant territory. He alternates, albeit sloppily, between broader strokes and more refined flicks of his tongue over your clit. A choked gasp above him is everything he could ever want to hear from you. 

It feels coarse to confess his feelings so quickly, and with his mouth firmly trespassing somewhere unsightly. Arthur would hate for you to get the wrong idea, he keeps his thoughts to himself as a result. 

His technique is improving, you note as the warmth from your core spreads outward with a dependability exclusive to this situation. Arthur can catch the ends of your nerves on fire, even when he’s hardly a quick study. 

He’s excessive with his ministrations, but you can’t find it in you to care as your hips are gently shifted outward and the tip of his tongue prods gently at your entrance. Your grip on his hair tightens, pushing him forward and steering him in that direction. Lazily, Arthur intrudes on you as your patience runs very thin. 

“All right, all right, enough,” you mumble, your eyes cast downward to the top of his head. Arthur pulls away with no further questions, sitting back on his knees as if awaiting your decision of what to do with him. 

You lower your knee from his shoulder. Your skirt drops to cover your legs as you lean forward, passing the pad of your thumb over his lower lip. 

What makes you press more firmly, until Arthur’s mouth opens enough to close around your thumb is beyond you. But you watch, dumbfounded as he sucks gently on your finger. 

You curse under your breath, withdrawing your hand despite being clearly mesmerized. With an encroaching, devious smile, you place your hands on his shoulders and push arthur firmly back. 

He abides easily, lying on the grass with a sly stare as you push further away from the tree. You widen your stance enough to position a leg on either side of his hips before kneeling atop them. 

You settle on him, your weight a comfort to his now-throbbing bulge. It’s shocking and remarkable what your little sounds of pleasure can do to him. When you hazard a teasing, forward rock, Arthur makes his own noises of desperation. 

“You’re gettin’ better at eatin’ pussy,” you tell him with a proud but still-depraved look of satisfaction on his face. Arthur sits up on his elbows. 

“You’re gettin’ good at tryin’ my patience. I didn’t waste any time with you,” he insists and you’re left marvelling at the gall of him. You place a steady, certain hand loosely around the front of his neck. With careful pressure, you ease him back until he’s lying flat against the ground again. 

But you don’t squeeze, not yet. Perhaps you’ll never be trusted with something like that. Still, the implication of it makes Arthur’s cock noticeably twitch against your sex, it’s a wakeup call to the pleasant ache you’re feeling, too. 

“Stay still, there’s my good boy,” you mumble, shifting again if only to make him gasp. “I need you, too. Just gimme a minute.” 

Arthur’s hands settle on your hips, his thumbs rubbing circles into the fabric. You allow it, he needs any distraction he can find as you wiggle into a more comfortable position. In the end you lift yourself onto your knees and move back enough to undo the buttons on his trousers.

He springs to help, still a gentleman. Even his hands are shaking with anticipation. They bump against your own, getting in the way. You could pin him again, but you think not. 

When his hot, twitching cock is freed he breathes a gentle sigh of relief. You waste no time, able to admit at least to yourself that he’s right. He was very prompt with your care, you’d like to encourage that behaviour. 

Arthur doesn’t know if there’s a better feeling than your warm palm giving him relief. He’s fucked before, might even fuck again without you present. When you’re long gone. But it’s never been like this before, there’s never been longing like this before.

Your woodland affair will last a generous sixteen minutes from start to finish, and yet it feels so much longer. It’s an hour, you touch him for an hour, drawing sighs and moans and the sound of your name from his lips. Arthur’s unaware of any ticking clocks or passing time, but when he’s with you it always manages to stretch as long as he needs. 

After a torturous minute and a half of you pumping a loose fist around the circumference of his length, you lift your hips again and hold him in place as you take him inside you. It’s a good feeling, a snug fit. You buck without provocation, as if you can’t help yourself. It makes Arthur twitch again, involuntarily. 

Your forward lean and hands braced against his chest drive him to lift his own hips and help you. He can see your face, drawn out with pleasure and happy. Arthur can bring you joy in spite of every teacher and instinct you’ve ever had looking to deny you of it. That, he imagines, is power immeasurable. 

It wouldn’t do for him to be lazy, sloppy. Not when it’s so much nicer to hear you enjoy yourself. Arthur releases one of your hips, pushing his rough hand instead under the folds of your skirt. And beneath that blood-red petticoat, he finds what he’s looking for. Previously teased with his tongue, Arthur circles his middle finger around your clit.

You gape at him, a smile twitching on your lips as you start to lift your hips. You set a careful pace, not wanting to pitch forward and cause him harm. Arthur doesn’t mind you taking your time, he matches your movements to meet yours. All the while, he spells the letter o against your sensitive bud.

It takes no time at all. He feels you clench, convulse just slight and then go still. Perhaps three seconds of orgasmic bliss that could’ve easily been five or ten minutes for all he knows. Arthur doesn’t fault you when you throw yourself down beside him, his cock still standing at attention and —he notes with a jolt directly to it— glistening in the half-sunlight. 

“I got it,” Arthur speaks and his voice sounds gruff. He sounds old and hoarse, he nearly winces at it. 

But you’re already moving, looking a little sore and sluggish as you sit up and make for his lower body again. He half-wonders if you intend to mount him again. But no, you settle between his legs, not atop them and with a desire to return a favour. 

You taste yourself on his cock as you take him in your mouth, simultaneously pleased and unnerved by that fact. But Arthur’s clenched jaw and look of surprise dispels any doubt you might have about it. You pleasure him as best you can with your mouth— you’re hardly a professional yet, either.

The taste of salt on your tongue, of heat and lust is palpable despite being erring on the side of unpalatable. He doesn’t force more of his cock in your mouth that you initially take, making up for the unloved length of him with a stroking fist again. 

Just as readily as you enjoy his tongue in intimate places, he does the same of you. Arthur groans, already breathing hard from thrusting and finding his vision beset by a fuzziness he can’t describe. 

He jerks up just slightly as he finishes in your mouth, regret written plain on his face as he struggles with the pleasure of it and the mortification of coming half-down your throat. 

You make a sound, not of outward disgust. It’s a giggle, a little surprised and pleased as you swallow what’s on your tongue. Arthur gawks, too boneless and shocked to tuck himself back in his trousers. You take care of that for him. 

“Didn’t have’ta do that,” he rumbles when he finds his voice. He sits up on his elbow again with no opposition from you this time. 

“I wanted to,” you reply, shifting to rest your head on his lower stomach. “and I’d do it again. If only to see your expression.” 

“Don’t tease me, now,” he says, his voice still low. But he reaches out, his fingers meeting your hair and brushing the loose strands away from your eyes. 

“Oh, but it’s so much fun. You always gimme a reaction.” Arthur laughs at that, it’s a sound both harsh and brief. But you cherish it. “Do we gotta head back, now?” You ask. 

Arthur lets out a long exhale. He looks at you, still-dressed but close to yawning for your exertion. 

“No,” he says. “we got time.”


	9. The Just

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're back to normal with a power move chapter lkdjf

Again. The last time, it seems, was only second-to-last. You’re too scared to look anyone in the street too close in the face. You’re scared of what they might recall under duress, you inspect the road unpaved and the pebbles at the toes of your shoes as you breeze towards the jailhouse.

You won’t kill him, you’re not the law. But you set your mouth into a hard line before shoving the wooden door open. The whole thing rattles under the weight of your anger, the metal handle shakes in your grip. 

“Mornin’, might you be the deputy?” You ask. Your small smile’s aided with a little rouge, it’s never hurt your chances. Two men turn to you at once, one’s able to walk around his desk with no bars to contain him. He’s waiflike, you note, too old for the job and peering at you under the brim of his hat. His eyes are glassy and ice-blue, he unnerves you. 

“What can I do for you, Miss?” He stares at you with a pleasant enough expression and seems not to notice when your unassuming gaze darts to the man now-pacing in his cell. You don’t need to rely on him to be inconspicuous, he’s played this game with you twice before.

He doesn’t know you’ve changed the rules. 

“I’d like to file a report, if that’s possible?” You’re careful to keep your tone even, undisturbed. No urgency, no need to to call the sheriff. The man looks surprised, he turns to fetch a piece of paper and a pen. You seize your chance. 

“Sure, I can take a statement. You mind tellin’ me what’s happened?” He starts. You reach into the pocket of your skirt, the heavy, lead pipe concealed by folds in the fabric. You speak quickly, hoping he won’t notice the sound of your voice getting louder as you approach him. 

“My neighbour’s been snoopin’ around lately and—” a single, clean blow to the back of his head with a blunt object knocks the old deputy out cold. He’s not awake to hear the other half of your sentence. He falls gracelessly and lands hard next to his desk. 

“What in the—” Arthur finally sees fit to speak, turned to you and alarmed by the sound of a body dropping. 

“They gonna hang you, Morgan?” You ask. He eyes the deputy.

“You sure he’s dead?” He asks. You roll your eyes and nudge the warm body with your foot as you step over him. But you keep your distance from Arthur’s cell.

“No, he ain’t dead. What’d you do and will they hang you for it?” You try again. His last attempt, he seems to realize that.

“Might’ve hit somebody over’n the saloon,” he admits, “I dunno, must’ve been drunk.” 

“I thought the night out with Lenny taught you a lesson.” You say. It’s a deep cut, you can see the lash land and the look of hurt on his face is inescapably upsetting to you. You shift closer and your tone changes, you talk a little sweeter when you ask him, “Are you hungover?”

“Yeah,” he drawls, his voice drags like he’s in the process of feeling sorry for himself, “head still hurts a little.” 

“I’m sorry,” you continue, still sounding remorseful as you saunter over to the iron bars caging him. “wouldn’t’ve slammed the door f’I knew.” 

“S’okay,” he mumbles, looking at you with a mounting relief, “just wanna get home. Keys’re on the dep’s belt.” 

You ignore him and your meandering deposits you a few inches from the man in the cell. You stand close to the bars, Arthur shifts and stands even closer. You lift a hand, tapping your lower lip with your index finger. The universal sign for a kiss wanted barely needs a moment to stew before Arthur dips his head and grants your wish. 

His mouth’s warm, lips are dry and he still tastes faintly of whiskey. But, nonetheless he’s familiar and pleasant. Even if cold, iron bars press at your cheeks, there is no possibility of you disliking this intimacy.

Arthur does his best to hold you, the effort’s rather sweet. He reaches through the bars as far as he can, only about to his elbows and rests his hands at the small of your back. 

“Missed you,” he mumbles against your lips.

“Missed you, too,” you say, “thought’cha might’ve gotten into some real trouble, Arthur.” He likes the sound of his name when you say it, never thought he would. But he’s glad you’re not persisting with calling him Morgan. 

“Depends on who y’ask. I didn’t have enough to post bail.” He says. You tilt your head to the side. He’s trying his best to melt your heart, although you have no doubt he doesn’t know why you haven’t rushed to free him. 

“How much?” You ask. It’s ten dollars, you lift a questioning eyebrow. Ten dollars, it could be a lot worse. Your options’ve opened up knowing they don’t intend to hang him for this. 

“You gonna let me out?” He asks after a moment of silence. You blink and your eyes focus on his face. He does look like hell, you note. He’s sporting scruff and tired eyes, you do feel bad for him. 

Just not bad enough. 

Your hand gripping the bar lowers just slightly. You mimic him to an extent, reaching for Arthur through the bars. He’s so close to them, as close as he can be without pressing against them. Your hand is much lower than his, however, seeking out the meat of his thigh and squeezing before working your way inward. 

“Just what do you think you’re—” he can’t even finish his thought. Your hand cups his crotch and gives a firm squeeze. Arthur keens, leaning his pelvis against the iron as you palm him through his trousers. 

He was already stirring, you suppose, likely from the kiss. Arthur’s a good man, a sweet man, he hasn’t been kissed enough to render the act anything but a stimulant. Poor darling, but you’re not in the mood for being merciful. 

You guess he’s afraid to speak should he say something to make you stop. But he’s in no danger of that happening. You make short work of the belt around his waist and the buttons keeping his fly closed.

And then you’re on your knees, skirt pooling around you in a circle as you fish his cock from his pants. Arthur lets go of you out of necessity but hardly out of want. He grips the bars instead, white-knuckling them as he tries to decide if you’ve lost your mind. 

Oh, but he doesn’t care enough if you have to stop you. He feels your hands, warm and tender as usual helping him out of the confines of his trousers. It’s a strange location, with an out-cold deputy on the floor a few feet away. Arthur almost wants to remind you of that little detail. 

But he knows what you’ll say, that he better not waste your time taking forever to come. It sends a jolt like awry electricity directly to his cock. Tt twitches and bobs in front of you, bared now and hard. So painfully hard. 

You waste no time, taking the impressive shaft in hand and bringing the head to your mouth. Arthur groans with very little reservation as you press a delicate kiss to it. Your tongue darting out, licking gently at the slit is painfully erotic. 

He says little and, unfortunately for him, can do little. Arthur’s somewhat stuck, unable to grip the back of your head how he likes on occasion. With limited mobility, he watches you lavish attention on his intimate areas. 

You take him in your mouth, unhurried despite the circumstances. As much as he intends to eye the body across the room for any decisive movement, Arthur’s eyes soon fall closed. He leans forward, bracing his forehead against the bars and inhaling slowly. 

The sounds you make, gentle hums and the occasional sigh are maddening. Arthur’s mouth lolls open, he stands on the precipice of saying either something very beautiful or very stupid. You’ve successfully melted his brain with a few movements of your head.

And a few swipes of your tongue. He’s not sure if he can last, only that he doesn’t have to worry about it this time. Every motion, every ounce of attention paid to the thick and highly sensitive veins on the shaft of his cock appear calculated. You’re trying to get him— oh, Arthur realizes with a strangled gasp, that’s a naughty thought. You’re doing your very best to make him come in your mouth. 

His head can’t throb when it’s too busy spinning. The harsh light of day is obscured by the ink-dark behind his eyelids. There isn’t any pain, any harsh thrusting or demand for him to do anything other than stay upright. His knees listen, they don’t buckle just yet. 

You’re more insistent with your tongue after he moans a guttural please. It’s as if you’re trying to reassure him he needs not ask. You’re wanting him to finish off, apparently, before you decide his fate. You’re in control, he’d have it no other way. 

His hips rock gently but are very unsuccessful in their efforts. Arthur tries his best to occupy as much of your mouth as he can. Your lips manage to hide roughly half of the cock he never thought to be terribly impressive. He’s learned otherwise very quickly. The other half, and his now-aching balls are in your hands. Arthur’s kept at bay by you and the bars, unable to buck as wildly as his poor judgement would like. But it’s better for his headache if he doesn’t. You’d be cross if he hurt himself. 

It’s a cacophony of sensations, an orchestra of truly indulgent pleasure that sends him careening off into something like a pit. But it’s bottomless, and filled only with a tingling warmth. It’s post-lightning strike, wholly pleasant with no pain and only the faintest smell of electricity in the air. He grunts and groans more freely, you delight in the occasional whimper. 

Arthur’s half in your mouth when he comes, gripping the bars and speaking your name like he couldn’t contain it if he tried. It bursts forth from his heart, just as other things follow suit. You taste no whisky now, just salt and bitterness that you swallow. 

He’s helpless for a span of three seconds, overcome with a golden glow and you deny its fading. You coax him through his orgasm, only releasing him from your mouth when he’s finished. But it’s not over.

You hold his cock, now softening slowly and lazily begin to stroke. 

“What do we say?” You ask. He blinks as his eyes open, assaulted again by light.

“Please,” Arthur tries. It’s very tempting for you to accept it, but it’s incorrect.

“You’re in jail, use your head.” You give the base of his length a gentle squeeze that feels much crueller for its current sensitivity. 

“I’m sorry,” he offers up. That’ll do just fine. “it won’t happen again.” 

“That’s what’cha said last time, silly.” You say. But there’s a smile on your face. “You never learn.” 

“Please—” Arthur’s voice cracks a little. You hear him tell you to stop somewhere in there. You do, and begin to tuck him back into his trousers. 

“Can’t teach you nothin’ if I let you go, you know that.” You stand up, the strain on your back is shockingly painful but you show no outward sign of it. 

“But I thought—” he says. He looks confused, still clinging to the bars. You lean in, giving him a chaste kiss. He can taste himself on you, it’s almost impossible not to think about. Arthur shivers as you cup his cheek. 

“You were wrong. You’re gonna stay here ’til he wakes up’n lets you out. Or ’til the sheriff comes back.” Reaching into your pocket, your fingers bump against the concealed lead pipe.

But something else lies waiting, a money clip with a few bills haphazardly stuck in it. You pull from it two fives and hand them to Arthur with a smirk. 

“There’s bail. Pretend you forgot to check a pocket.” You give him another kiss, a little more firm. Arthur’s stomach sinks as he realizes you’re doing your best to curb how much you’ll miss him. 

“Come on,” he grunts. He’s not angry, only desperate. You give a slow shake of your head. 

“Next time, don’t get caught. See you at home.” And then you turn, you breeze easily across the jail and out the door. True to your word, it doesn’t slam behind you. 

Arthur’s grip on the bars only starts to go slack once you’re out of sight.


End file.
